


Caught Me at the Worst Time

by Nanji



Series: I Hope We Find What We're Looking For [4]
Category: Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo, jojo's bizarre adventure: Golden Wind, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Implied MeloGhia/GhiaMelo, M/M, Post-Break Up, Will update tags as we move along, implied bruabba - Freeform, implied naratrish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanji/pseuds/Nanji
Summary: "Don't talk it over. It's pointless either way.I can't remember, and I just can't explain....You sure have picked the wrong time, the worst time."(fromCaught Me at the Worst Timeby Ciudad)
Relationships: Giorno Giovanna/Guido Mista, Giorno Giovanna/Kishibe Rohan, Guido Mista/Prosciutto
Series: I Hope We Find What We're Looking For [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871932
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	1. Caught Me at The Worst Time

**Author's Note:**

> Please know that the ages of the characters are adjusted in all parts of this series! :) Giorno is 18, which makes Mista 21. Rohan's age is also adjusted to 21 to avoid awkward age gaps.

It’s been exactly a week since Giorno’s return from Paris. If it hadn’t been for all the catching up he needed to do for his classes at the university, he would’ve instantly invited the gang out for a drink the moment he landed back home at Napoli. Fortunately, after several days of extreme focus—and the occasional _“Fugo, do you have a minute? Can you help me out?_ ”—he is finally able to take everyone in their humble apartment for a much-deserved Friday night out.

But even with his famiglia surrounding him; exchanging conversations, sharing laughter, drinking, and simply enjoying the night…

It just doesn’t feel the same without Mista.

He sighs.

“What’s up, buddy?” Narancia asks, being the first to notice.

“I just missed this,” the blond smiles. “All of you, really,” he says tenderly as he plays with his glass before fully consuming his drink.

“Quite sentimental tonight, aren’t you, Giorno?” Abbacchio lets out a hearty laugh. He takes a glass and passes it to the young blond. “Get to it, ragazzo. Or else I’ll drink ‘em all!” 

The young man takes the glass. “Thanks, Abbacchio,” he snickers. “You guys are great,” before taking a giant swig of the drink. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Abbachio exclaims. He raises his glass while the other members do the same. 

“Welcome back, Giorno! It’s a good thing you’re smart or else we won’t be in this bar till next semester!” 

The gang explodes in uproarious laughter. They clink their glasses together, and each one takes a sip. 

“I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Fugo,” Giorno chuckles, clearly praising the other blond for the time and effort spent on helping him in school.

“To be fair, you were a much better tutee than Narancia,” Fugo chimes in. “And if you really wanna thank me, the next round’s on you!” he says as he pats his classmate on the back. 

“Hey, no fair, Fugo!” Narancia shouts. “Giorno just happens to be in an easy-A class!”

“Do you want the free drinks or not?” Giorno asks with a raised brow.

Narancia automatically shuts his mouth.

“And that’s why he was easier to teach,” Fugo playfully smacks Narancia on the dome of his head.

“No wonder the guy keeps losing brain cells,” Bucciarati inserts himself in the conversation. “All you lot do is keep smacking him on the head!”

The group laughs collectively once again.

“So Giorno,” Bucciarati is the first to sober up. “Tell us about your trip. You never once shared anything except for the photo from the Eiffel Tower.”

“YEAH GIORNO, TELL US ABOUT HOW YOU HOOKED UP WITH KISHIBE ROHAN IN PARIS!!!” Narancia shouts with utmost excitement, earning glances from other people.

Trish lands a swift hand at the back of Narancia’s head. “You’re too loud!!” She exclaims.

“Babe, we’re in a bar! Giorno won’t hear me if I don’t shout!” Narancia whines.

“You had strangers looking at us!”

“Okay okay okay okay! I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” the boy cries out comically. And as he turns to face the group, all eyes were on Giorno; silent and in absolute shock.

“Giorno, you never told me anything about this Rohan guy,” Abbacchio smirks. “What’s this little secret?”

“I bet it’s a dirty little secret,” Fugo slyly mentions. “But that got me feeling so left out, Giorno. You spend more time with me than anyone else on this table. How come you never told me?”

Giorno looks at all the eyes that are glued to him, each pair trying to pierce into his mind and dig up any secrets buried within.

The blond lifts up his glass and takes an even bigger gulp than the last, immediately emptying its contents.

“Psssshhhh,” Narancia pouts. “Fine if you won’t tell, I guess we’ll just have to get you drunk enough to spill!”

“Let the alcohol do the talking!” Fugo laughs. “For once, you’re right, Narancia!” 

Giorno shakes his head dismissively at the remark and huffs out a small laugh through his nose. He takes a beer from the center of the table.

“So who is this Kishibe Rohan that Narancia was talking about?” Bucciarati asks, still not willing to let go of the topic.

“How do you NOT know him!?” Narancia eagerly responds as he stands up from his seat. “He’s a famous Japanese comic book artist!!!! I have some of his books in my room!!” With each sentence, his face inches closer and closer to Bucciarati’s. “He’s a fucking legend, I tell you!! You have no idea how fucking hyped I was when—”

“I believe I asked Giorno the question,” Bucciarati cuts in as he chuckles. 

Narancia reluctantly sits down, still trying to clearly hold in his excitement.

As Giorno finishes his beer, he puts the can back on the table and wipes his lips with a napkin.

“Just so everyone knows, I didn’t hook up with anyone,” he says nonchalantly, eyeing Narancia shortly afterward.

“Wait,” Fugo stammers. “Is this the guy who took photos of you at the Louvre and at the bar?!”

The braided blond looks away from his peers, hoping to avoid the question being pressed upon him. This, however, was seen by the group as a clear and definitive answer.

“So _he’s_ Kishibe Rohan,” Bucciarati comments almost disapprovingly, being the first to read Giorno’s gestures.

“So a famous artist makes you his model. Who cares?” Abbacchio shoots Bucciarati and the others a curious look.

“I think this is something you should see, Abbacchio,” Fugo answers as he takes his phone out and makes a few taps and scrolling motions. He then passes it over to the long-haired man. 

Abbacchio takes the phone and sees a photo of Giorno biting his lip playfully right into the camera. His eyes widen.

“Wow. Didn’t know il ragazzo can party like _that_ ,” Abbacchio comments. His eyes shift to the young blond sitting right across him.

“What?” is all the braided blond manages to say through a terrible poker face, obviously trying to hide a pout.

Narancia suddenly slams both of his hands on the table, drawing everyone’s attention to him—both the gang and the other patrons near their table.

“I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT! GIORNO, YOU DOG!!!” he wildly shrieks, pointing at the blond in a highly animated manner.

Giorno nearly spits his drink out at Narancia’s accusation. He brings his hands in front of him, beads of sweat quickly forming on his brow. “It’s not what you think—Guys,” he immediately says between coughs to clear his throat. He then sits up straight; poise and impassive. “Nothing happened. He even ghosted me after we slept in my hotel room—” 

Narancia eyes him suspiciously. He approaches his friend while pretending to hold a pipe before proceeding to rub his chin. “Sleeping together… _together_ … in _your_ … hotel room?” he shifts his gaze from Giorno, to Abbacchio, and to the others, wiggling his eyebrows. “Well then your honor, given what the defendant has said, we can clearly see that GIORNO IS GUILTY OF HOE-ING IT UP IN PARIS!” his grin reaches from ear to ear. His vociferous enthusiasm and energy are met with more smacks on the back of his head; not just from Trish, but also from Fugo.

“Too loud!!” the two say in unison.

“Ouch!! I’m sorry I’m sorry!!” Narancia yelps.

“Wait! Don’t say sorry yet!” Abbacchio joins in. “Let me have some fun,” he says winding up his arm to playfully whack the boy.

Amidst all of the comical banter and boisterous laughter, Giorno now sits silently; watching his friends. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to fully immerse himself with the group. He knows that he should be enjoying— _‘I truly am!’_ he even thinks to himself—but every time he tries to laugh along, his emotions just couldn’t latch on properly to what his mind wants. He starts to feel his mind slowly being filled with static, dragging him further away from his peers. His vision is clear, but his hearing feels muffled. He furrows his brows as an attempt to reel himself back to reality, but to no avail. The feeling of defeat slowly sweeps across him like an unwanted embrace. He always hated it when his mind and heart failed to connect and cooperate as they normally should.

Meanwhile, the DJ picks up a dusty old record from their stack and plants it on one of the turntables. With a flick of their wrist and a few turns of the knobs and switches, they masterfully transition to the next song, a crowd-favorite electronic song from the yesteryears. As soon as the first note begins, it’s met by the crowds' cheers and chants. The shouts and screams are soon drowned out by the thumping of the bass and swells of the synths.

Giorno sees Narancia stand up, grabbing Trish by the arm with a wide and tender grin on his face. He makes out the boy’s lips saying, “Let’s dance.” 

He watches the two make their way to the dancefloor. 

_‘This is probably the part where Mista would also ask me to dance.’_ Giorno thinks to himself.

“Useless,” he silently mutters as he grabs another beer from the table. 

He downs what could be his fourth drink of the night. He rolls his eyes at the realization. It just had to be _that_ number, huh? As he lets out a deep and audible sigh, his body starts to sway involuntarily.

“Oi, oi! Look at Giorno!” Abbacchio points out, clearly amused at the rare sight of the boy who’s obviously inebriated. “Hey, have you had too much?”

“I can’t believe it, he’s like Narancia right now!” Fugo jumps in with Abbacchio.

“Shut up,” Giorno shrugs off the two. He swallows another mouthful of beer.

“Oh? Giorno, you wanna party like you’re in Paris?” Bucciarati teases the boy.

“Paris?” Giorno repeats before pausing. He takes a measured sip of his drink.

“Paris? You really wanna know what I think about Paris?” the blond grits his teeth. “FUCK PARIS!” Giorno finally explodes, slamming his can of beer against the table; spilling some of its contents brought about by the impact.

The three men flinch in shock, completely taken aback by what Giorno just did. It was a sight they had never seen before. Hell, it was something they could _never_ even imagine to happen. The braided man who they always knew to be so calm and collected, is now overcome with raw fiery emotions. The seemingly burning emerald eyes shift among the men sitting at the table.

“You don’t know what the FUCK happened there!”

“Woah man, calm down,” Fugo tries to pacify the situation. “We just wanted to know how your trip went!”

Giorno shoots his friend with an infuriated look. 

“You wanna know what happened in Paris? Huh? Well, I’ll fucking tell you!” he starts lashing out. “I went there to find what exactly it is that I want, now that Mista’s gone. Suddenly, I found the feeling I had been longing for in such a long time through Rohan and yet––” his voice rises to a crescendo, only to crack as he forces his feelings out. 

“I didn’t find what I was fucking looking for in Paris because he’s been here this whole time in Napoli!”

He takes a swig from his drink before continuing. He starts to feel tears escape from his eyes.

“And what’s worse?” he breathes in.

“He’s moved on!” he shouts, slamming his now-emptied drink violently against the table. The explosive sound it made was enough to turn heads towards Giorno’s direction; to which he gave absolute zero fucks.

“It’s been six fucking months. I’m not supposed to miss him like this anymore,” he pauses to sigh deeply.

“But I do.” 

Then he finally collapses onto his seat, the fiery emotions fading out as quickly as they had come and is now reduced to ashes of sorrow and exhaustion...

“I fucking do,” he confesses, completely ignoring the tears that are freely spilling from his eyes.

The three silently exchange nervous looks. The sight of Giorno breaking down, especially in public, just feels too unrealistic to even happen. Never in their rollercoaster ride of their young lives, have they entertained the possibility of Giorno Giovanna being so agitated and incredibly overpowered by his emotions. But here they are, at a complete loss of words… and actions. They _really_ need to do something. And fast.

Fugo nudges his arm at Abbacchio, who in turn, nudges Bruno; only for him to raise his brow as if to say, “what the hell am I supposed to do?” He is quick to bring the pointing game to a close by eyeing Fugo, before tilting his head towards Giorno’s direction; signalling him.

Fugo catches the cues sharply and nods. “Heyyy man. It’s not that bad,” he starts. His voice and gestures appear tense, paired with the awkward smile on his face.

“Yeah! Maybe you can hit things off with that Rohan guy!” Abbacchio manages to let out a nervous chuckle.

Bucciarati shoots the two an annoyed look. He nearly blames himself for even letting Fugo start. He brings a hand to his face, almost slapping himself. And with a long dragging sigh, he brings his eyes back to Abbacchio and Fugo. He slowly mouths “Get out,” as if it were a threat.

The two then stand up to leave and take—what they believe—is their much-needed break. “Thank god,” Bucciarati can faintly hear Abbacchio say. “I need a smoke. You got any on you Fugo?” to which the other blond nods. 

And as soon as the seats get vacated, Bruno sits next to the vulnerable-looking boy.

“Hey. We’re sorry,” the older man starts. “It wasn’t any of our business.” He hands the blond a glass of water to provide at least some form of help or relief.. 

Giorno doesn’t take the glass, and instead leans back on his seat; his face devoid of any expression despite a lone tear slowly trailing down his cheek. He keeps his face away from Bucciarati—slightly embarrassed with the irrational fit that he just threw.

Despite the loud noises of the club, Bucciarati can hear the younger man’s muffled voice between hiccups, as if Giorno was forcing himself to suppress the sobs that so desperately wanted to escape his mouth.

“I can’t believe it took me a little over six months to realize it…” he quietly says. “I never should’ve left.”

The older man tries to listen earnestly amidst the clamor that seems to absorb the other’s voice. He gently runs his hand on the blond’s back, patting it gently.

“Do you wanna go home already so you could rest?” he proposes.

But before Giorno could bring himself up to give an answer, a familiar voice calls out.

“Well well _well_ , look what we have here! Bucciarati, don’t tell me you’re going after Giorno too? Wouldn’t that make things even more... _complicated_?”

Both Bucciarati and Giorno look up to see Melone with a smug look plastered on his face. Next to him is Ghiaccio, a blue-haired man with thick red-framed glasses, who clearly looked disgruntled.

“What do you want?” Bucciarati glares at the two.

“I want him,” the lilac-haired man teases as he lifts his arm gracefully, extending it forward to point at the blond who was starting to collect his composure. He licks his lips.

Ghiaccio clicks his tongue disapprovingly at the appalling sight. “Oi oi oi! Keep it in your pants!” he snaps.

“Di molto! Don’t tell me that’s all it takes to make you jealous, Ghiaccio!” Melone sneers at his partner. “But I guess that’s what makes you so cute,” he follows with a wink.

“It’s ‘molto bene’, cazzone!” The four-eyed man angrily shouts. “You’re fucking Italian so speak like one!”

While the two are busy bickering, Bucciarati stands up to confront them.

“If you’re here to cause trouble,” he warns. “Then it would be best to do it somewhere else.”

“Oh no no no, we’re not here to cause any trouble,” Melone raises his hands defensively as he answers with a smirk. He then eyes his companion, seemingly waiting for his words to be continued.

“It’s all because of that damn Mista and Prosciutto!” Ghiaccio then adds, as if on cue. “Shitheads are too busy fucking, it’s making a shitstorm of a noise in the damn dorm we had no other choice but to leave! Pezzi de cazzo!”

“Enough with this nonsense!” Bucciarati interjects. “I told you to go cause trouble somewhere else—”

Before Bruno could finish, Giorno cuts in. “W-what did you say?” 

The men turn their heads to see the blond slowly standing up to approach them.

“Giorno, it’s alright, I’ll take care of this—”

“It’s fine, Bucciarati,” the younger man politely declines. He places a hand on his senior’s shoulder for balance before looking at the couple in front of them.

“So it’s true,” he speaks in a hushed tone, but audible enough for them to hear. This earns a priggish grin from Melone.

“Heh. Why would I ever lie to someone as beautiful as you, Giorno?” the lavender-haired man takes a step forward to curl a lock of the blond’s hair around his finger, twirling it playfully.

Bucciarati is the first to swat Melone’s hand off his friend, beating Ghiaccio to it.

“Leave,” he states sternly. 

“Di molto, Bucciarati! Already possessive over Giorno?” the mischievous man teases, completely amused by Bucciarati’s reactions. He then looks at the young man before him. “But I must say, Giorno, you’re quite the charmer. Didn’t think you’d let Bucciarati make a move on you like tha—”

“Shut up,” the blond interrupts Melone. He firmly places a hand on the pale man’s shoulder and glares at him.

Before he could continue, he suddenly feels his throat tighten; as if he’s choking on the words he wishes to utter. No matter how hard he tries, the bump he feels in his throat just wouldn’t let them out. He tightens his grip on Melone, trying to keep up his front. Yet it all came crashing down when he finally opened his mouth.

“W-where’s your dorm. Please. I need to see him.”

“Oh?” the other smirks. “I’m jealous that you’re this easy when it comes to Mista, Giorno. You were so hard to get back in Paris,” Melone winks; his devious smirk only getting wider and wider.

The blond sighs. “Just tell me where the dorm is.”

“I’m telling you now, you don’t want to go there,” Melone scoffs.

“You have to be a fucking idiot to want to go there,” Ghiaccio quietly adds, slowly reaching his boiling point. “Wasn’t that the fucking reason why we went here?”

But Giorno doesn’t heed the icy man’s words, ignoring him completely as if he doesn’t exist. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on to Melone, slowly losing his patience. He demands once again. This time, a tone lower and a bit more slowly.

“Tell. Me.”

“Oh but dear Giorno,” the man coyly responds, putting emphasis on the name. “You do know that everything has a price, right?” he licks his lips hungrily at the blond.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Ghiaccio finally explodes. “OUR DORM IS NEAR THE SOUTH GATE FROM UNI. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE I FUCKING BEAT YOUR ASSES TO THE GROUND!” He pushes Giorno off his partner. He then swiftly glares at Melone and grabs him by the collar. “YOU AND ME, WE’RE GONNA HAVE A TALK, TESTA DI CAZZO!”

“Thank you,” Giorno says to the two in a suddenly polite tone. He turns to face Bucciarati.

“I’m leaving. Sorry,” is all he says as he turns to his heels and makes his way out. The older man follows and grabs his arm. 

“I’ll give you a ride,” he proposes to the blond. “I need to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

––-

Abbacchio takes a long drag from his cigarette and huffs out a cloud of smoke. 

“God, that was so awkward,” he says to Fugo. “Honestly, I think Giorno’s fucking stupid. It’s been six months since the breakup, and he’s still hung up on Mista.”

The other agrees. “Honestly, yeah. I mean don’t get me wrong! His grades are great, he’s smart and reliable, but when it comes to stuff like this, and with what we just saw,” he pauses to clench his fist. “It sometimes makes me want to drive a fork up his face! We can’t even hang out properly as a group properly anymore and—”

Right at that moment, the doors to the bar swing open and Giorno emerges with Bucciarati.

The two flinch and quickly take another drag at their cigarettes, pretending like nothing happened.

“Oh! Hey guys, what’s up? You want a smoke?” Fugo sheepishly offers.

“We don’t smoke, Fugo,” Bruno passively answers. “We have to go somewhere. We’ll be back.”

“Oi, oi! T-tab’s on Giorno tonight, you better not ditch!” Abbacchio stutters.

“You really think we’d stoop so low as to ditch?” the black-haired man annoyedly replies. “Oh, and Fugo, we’ll pretend we didn’t hear what you said,” he comments as he and Giorno walk past them, making a beeline towards the car. 

As soon as the duo are comfortably seated, Bruno starts the engine and moves the car forward. He eyes Fugo and Abbacchio from the rearview mirror; awkwardly waving goodbye as they head out into the night.

“Hey. Thanks for coming with me,” Giorno finally breaks the silence as they’re driving towards the dorm.

“It’s nothing,” the older man responds. “I have to admit, the news on Mista had me curious myself. He was always in his own little world, it never occurred to us that he’d…” he slowly trails off to a pause, then glances at the younger for a second in a careful manner. “Hang out with La Squadra.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of the drive. Whether it was a comfortable silence or an unbearable one, neither of them could know for sure. 

After a couple more minutes, they finally reach the intersection near La Squadra’s dorm building—a two-storey flat painted alternatingly with cool greys and whites. Bucciarati parks the car nearby. He turns to his junior and says, “I don’t need to tell you again, do I?”

Giorno silently nods, and steps out to head towards the dorm.

He stops upon seeing the main door of the building open. Giorno eyes a young man of above-average height in a purple, argyle-patterned beanie exiting the dorm, followed by another blond man. Giorno easily recognizes that beanie, it was his favorite... 

It was Mista’s. 

Mista turns around to face that other blond; who could only be none other than Prosciutto. They share a short kiss, and part ways. Mista walks in the opposite direction of the car, and disappears into the night.

It takes a while for Giorno to fully process what he just saw. He feels Bruno’s presence behind him as the older man places a firm hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Bucciarati starts. “Some things are just… out of our control.”

The words were met with an unsettling silence.

“Do you wanna head back, Giorno?”

“J-Just,” the blond answers, his voice obviously starting to crack. “Give me a second."

“Alright, I’ll be in the car,” his senior gives his shoulder another firm yet comforting squeeze before heading back.

The blond pays no mind to his companion. His eyes stay glued to the sidewalk where his ex disappeared into. 

_“Why does it hurt?”_ he thinks to himself. _“Melone already told me. I knew what was coming. It’s not supposed to hurt as much. But in the end, it still does.”_

He doesn’t know if it was a trick of the wind, but he swears he could faintly hear Mista’s favorite song playing somewhere.

He remains frozen in place as his mind is overcome with thoughts. He gives himself a full second to react; waiting for his throat to tighten up a bit more just before the first tear rolls down his cheek, for his heart to feel heavy as if it will drop to the concrete pavement and shatter into a million broken shards—anything. For once, he is forcing himself to _feel_ something; apart from the growing numbness swelling within him. Yet deep inside, he knows his heart isn’t able to. His mind and heart, yet again, at a full disconnect. Lost and unable to act.

He blankly stares at the sidewalk for a few more moments; already forgetting the need to understand what had occurred. He breathes in one last time and exhales slowly before turning around and heading back to the car.

“Ready to go back?” the older man greets as his junior closes the door and buckles up.

“I’d rather go home,” the younger one admits. “But I have a tab to pay,” he jokes while forcing a smile despite the exhaustion present all over his voice, trying to convince himself and his friend that everything's still fine.

“I’m not gonna save you from the guys this time around,” Bucciarati responds, trying to lighten the mood. “But I’m here for you if you need a friend,” he adds as he pats the blond’s shoulder before starting the engine to drive back to the bar.

“Thank you, Bucciarati,” is all Giorno answers.

* * *

The lights flash back on in the room as a tan, dark-haired man sits on the side of the bed. He reaches for the bedside table and snatches his argyle-patterned beanie to wear it, before taking a stick from a pack of cigarettes. Behind him, a blond is busy dressing himself up in front of a full mirror; arranging his light hair into small messy buns after buttoning his shirt up.

“It always feels good if it’s with you, Mista,” the blond is the first to break the silence. “Pass me a stick?”

The man in the beanie manages to let out a snicker.

“Here,” he quietly says as he hands over the pack to the man.

They both light a cigarette and let the smoke subdue the scent of their lust in the room.

“So, same time next week?” Mista asks as he puts his shirt on.

“I’m afraid we can’t,” Prosciutto answers. “The others were complaining about all the noise we make.” He tries to lean in for a kiss. “Perhaps we can do it at your place next time?” he whispers.

Mista leans back on the bed and takes a huff of his cigarette. “We’ll see,” he says nonchalantly as he exhales the smoke from his lungs, managing to avoid the pair of lips from landing on his own. “Maybe we can find some other place then. The guys back home aren’t pretty keen on visitors,” he adds.

“Oh, okay then,” the blond manages to answer. He hesitates before going even further to plant a small kiss on Mista’s cheek instead.

The tanned man doesn’t respond.

The two spend the rest of their time in silence, occasionally taking a drag of their smokes to somehow ride out the satisfaction and excitement they felt earlier. After extinguishing their sticks and discarding the butts, Mista takes a look at the wall clock. 

“It’s late. I gotta go,” he stands up from the bed and heads for the door. 

The blond follows close behind. “Lemme show you out,” he offers. 

The two make their way down the hall, with Mista opening the main door that leads outside. A dark and quiet night greets him, with only the streetside lamps illuminating the surroundings. He takes a deep breath and sighs as he steps out onto the porch.

“I’ll see you soon?” Prosciutto asks.

“You know I’d always come crawling back to you,” Mista says in a hushed yet sensual tone. 

“Of course,” the blond acknowledges as he slowly wraps his arms around the tanned man’s neck. “Everyone knows it tastes better when it’s bad for you,” he whispers as he pulls Mista closer for a kiss.

“Tastes better huh,” the tan man echoes, stopping the other in his tracks. “Guess that’s the best way to describe it.”

“Don’t you think so?” Prosciutto comments. “I’m bad for you, Mista. But you can’t seem to stay away.”

The blond slowly inches closer, ready to plant his lips on the man’s. He closes his eyes and waits for the other to oblige.

But nothing happens.

“I’ll see you soon, Gio—” Mista says a little too softly as he tucks a couple of loose strands behind the blond’s ear.

His eyes grow wide.

“Sorry,” he dryly apologizes as he quickly takes his hand back.

“Tsk. I already told you,” Prosciutto clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “It’s not funny when you do that.”

“Yeah yeah,” the other dismisses. “I’ll see ya.” And without saying another word, Mista takes his leave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a blue SUV parked a block away. It was a car that was all too familiar to him. 

It was Bucciarati’s.

 _“That’s odd,”_ he thinks to himself. _“Why in the world would Bucciarati’s car be here? Isn’t he supposed to be at the bar with Giorno—”_

All his questions were answered at the thought of his former lover.

_“Shit.”_

There’s no other explanation. He swiftly turns the other way and heads down the sidewalk, desperately trying to avoid any unwanted attention.

He suddenly feels the filthy embarrassment of his empty desires begin to creep on his skin; sticking to him, clinging onto him, reminding him that all the gratification he is getting from all this is merely a shallow means to fill a void that he so desperately wanted to disappear. 

He sighs.

He takes his phone from his pocket and quickly untangles his earphones to put them on. He plays Close To You by the Carpenters on full blast. As the music begins to flood his ears, his mind in turn starts to flood with thoughts.

_“Well thank my lucky fucking stars. Why was he even here? I swear he always has the worst timing out of everyone. He caught me off guard when we broke up, and now he catches me this time with Prosciutto? Damnit, now Bucciarati knows too. What kind of lame-ass trick was that? I’M TRYING TO MOVE ON HERE. FUCK MAN. GIVE ME A BREAK.”_

He pauses and takes a deep breath in order to try and clear his mind.

_“...Damn that Giorno. Just when my night was going pretty well, jeez… Is he trying to make me miss him? Coz it might actually work, damnit.”_

He shakes his head at the thought.

_“You can’t miss him, dumbass. You just can’t. It’s not supposed to go that way... But what if...?”_

He dismisses all uncertainty.

_“Yeah… I do miss him. So fucking much. ”_

Mista stops dead in his tracks. The music playing on his phone begins to stop with him as the song fades out.

_“Wait a minute. Why was he there? Wouldn’t that mean… He was looking for me?”_

His heart skips a beat.

_“Does that mean he’s still… interested? Does he still love me?”_

And just before he starts entertaining the thoughts of being able to get back with his former love,

_“He must’ve seen me with Prosciutto…”_

As soon as Mista finishes his thought, a blue SUV approaches from behind. Time seemed to slow down as the vehicle passed him by. Just slow enough for him to catch a glimpse of the people inside it. 

A young blond is on the passenger’s seat, fully reclined against the seat with his face staring blankly at the distance from the window. To Mista’s surprise, the passenger didn’t seem to notice his presence. Or was it because Giorno didn’t _wish_ to acknowledge his presence…?

He then sees Bucciarati stoically looking at the road in front of him. The man in the driver’s seat shifts his gaze just so their eyes meet for a split-second. A chill runs down Mista’s spine. For the first time in their years of friendship, his friend’s steely eyes cut through the dark tint of the car and pierce him. 

No words were needed; Mista already got his friend’s message:

_“Look what you’ve done.”_


	2. It's Easy When It Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh I know we both feel confused  
> Don't make no sense  
> Just to carry on as we do"
> 
> (from _Love is Colder than Death_ by The Virgins)

The following weeks at the dorm have been unnecessarily tense for everyone. Every single day, the gang would see Giorno and Mista actively avoiding and ignoring each other, as if they never existed in their respective worlds. Whether it be dining with the gang or walking past each other’s rooms, the energy that the two were emanating is undeniably inhospitable. 

And needless to say, the group is slowly getting tired of such nonsense. 

~~~

**Week 1 – Monday**

“Hey uh, what exactly happened between those two last Friday?” Narancia asks over the dining table.

“I’m sure Bucciarati can give an explanation,” Abbacchio turns to the man as he sips his morning coffee.

“It’s none of our business,” Bruno dismissively answers. “Narancia, hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want us to run late.”

“Okay okay, I’m sorry!” the boy replies, as he takes in spoonfuls of his food. “I’m almosht dun, Bucharachi!” he announces childishly while chewing, with some bits of his breakfast falling from his mouth.

“Don’t talk when your mouth is full, goddamnit!” Fugo snaps. “You’re damn old enough to at least know that!”

Just before the two start bickering, they hear one of the bedroom doors open. The four men turn their heads towards the source of the sound to see a fully dressed Giorno looking cautiously at them. 

“Uh… Mista doesn’t have class until noon,” Fugo declares. “You can come over for some breakfast. We’re about to leave in a few minutes though.”

The braided man visibly flinches upon hearing the name.

“I’m… Not really hungry,” he answers.

“At leesht huv shum coffee, Giorno!” Narancia chimes in; still, with food stuffed in his mouth.

“Or… do you want… tea?” Abbacchio awkwardly chuckles as a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” the young man declines dryly. “I’ll be in the car.” And without any other words left to say, he heads out the door. 

“Way to go, Abbacchio,” Fugo manages a snicker.

“The fuck, Fugo? You said his name in front of him!” Abbacchio retorts.

“Pack it up, men,” Bucciarati announces as he stands up to head outside. “It’s gonna be a quiet drive,” he sighs.

Abbacchio and Fugo instantly glare at each other upon hearing the main door close.

“So uh…,” Narancia breaks the momentary silence. “Do I just bring him some coffee?” he stiffly tries to force a smile.

The two men at the table shift their glare to the boy, and in unison, they grunt.

“Shut up, Narancia.”

~~~

**Week 1 – Thursday**

The school’s cafeteria buzzes with the sounds of students, with every table occupied with groups in their own little world–-some of which would share laughter, stories, gossip, class notes, and many more. But for Bruno and the gang… 

“Seriously! Fuck Signora Ricci!” Mista exclaims as he stuffs his mouth with a spoonful of ribollita. “Exams are coming up, and she’s dropping a huge project worth 30% of our overall grade?! Is she insane?”

“Ah, I remember her,” Abbacchio replies. “She’s the old hag from the College of Economics. Pain in the ass, really. Just focus on the project. Her exams are usually easy.”

“Just try to get back at her during the professor evaluations,” Bucciarati snickers. “That’s what Abbacchio and I did.”

“You know nothing happens to those feedback forms, right, Bucciarati?” Abbacchio comments. “That’s why she’s still employed.”

“What?!?” Mista exclaims as he grips his red beanie to tug it downward, low enough to cover his entire forehead. He then turns to Narancia, eyes dead set on his friend’s.

“Hey man. Don’t take this professor. It’ll save you a lot of the trouble.”

“Dude, you look like you’ve seen better days,” Narancia comments at the dark circles that were starting to build around Mista’s fatigued black eyes. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“PROMISE ME, NARANCIA,” the man in the beanie grabs onto the younger boy’s shoulders as he practically begs.

“Huh? But I got an easy A from her in the introductory course,” Fugo inserts himself in the conversation nonchalantly, a smirk written on his face.

“I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW THAT, PANNACOTTA FUGO!” Mista snaps. “SHIT, WE ALL KNOW YOU’RE THE SMARTEST, JEEZ. COULD YOU AT LEAST BE A BIT MORE SENSITIVE?!”

The whole table laughs, with Fugo enjoying the torment he caused Mista.

“You know I could help you, right?” he adds.

“Would you really?” Mista’s eyes widen, almost twinkling with hope.

“Yeah man. I mean if I could teach Giorno to catch up on his studi—” Fugo cuts himself off before finishing the sentence. 

And they all fall silent. Everyone’s eyes shift away from one another as they eat their food and mind their own business.

“H-hey guys,” Mista finally speaks, a bit awkwardly at first. “It’s fine if you mention him, you know?” he says more loosely this time.

The group doesn’t respond. 

“Actually… Uh, I’ve been meaning to ask…,” he stammers. “How is he?”

Bucciarati shoots him an eerily familiar look; one that Mista has seen only once through the dark tint of an SUV. The older man silently mouths to him. 

_‘Too soon.’_

“Well, he’s pretty much caught up in class, if anything,” Fugo is the first to answer the question.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Fugo—”

The group’s atmosphere was already on edge, but with the arrival of an irritated blond, it is just about to be pushed over.

“Seriously. Fuck Signora Ricci,” Giorno drops his tray onto the group’s table. “A few days till exams and she gives us a huge project. Thank god you helped me catch up, Fugo, or else—”

He suddenly stops rambling about his predicament once his eyes meet Mista’s. They both share an embarrassed look before looking down.

Every person on their table stops dead in their tracks; silent as they could ever be. Not even the noise of all the other students in the cafeteria could break the deafening silence looming over them.

It takes a couple of seconds before Mista wills himself to stand; his hands gripping onto his tray. The group, including Giorno who is yet to take his seat, glance at him.

“Uhm… I, uh, think I gotta go,” He stutters as he picks his tray up. “I’ll hold you on to your word, Fugo. See ya.” He turns around and walks off. 

With a seat vacated, Narancia scooches over, allowing Giorno to seat himself and eat. As the group slowly eases up and begins to engage in a new topic to talk about, the braided blond remains engulfed in his own thoughts. He glances at Mista’s direction and sighs deeply.

The man is now seated with a different group, smiling widely at a different blond man seated across him.

~~~

**Week 2 – Friday**

Giorno is the first to rant over at dinner while Mista is not around. 

“Dammit. Does he have to make everything so unnecessarily awkward?”

“You’re making it awkward too, kiddo,” Abbacchio butts in. “So quit the blame game.”

“And who’re you to talk?” Bucciarati rolls his eyes at Abbacchio and Fugo. “We’re just gonna have to deal with it till they fix it. They’re not children anymore.”

The group continues their meal in silence, save for the clinks and clanks of the tableware on their plates. The silence was a small nuisance at first, but slowly grew and grew until it became unbearable for Narancia to keep still anymore.

“But you know, Bucciarati,” the boy longingly says. “I kinda miss the good ol’ times,” he adds.

This makes Giorno shudder with unease. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Hey, Giorno, it’s not your fault,” Fugo says coolly as he places a hand on the other blond’s shoulder.

“Yeah, not your fault that we _all_ have to deal with this bullshit,” Abbacchio manages to let out a hearty laugh. A laugh that was met by grim looks from the rest of the table. The man reads the room and falls silent, brings out his pack of cigarettes, and starts fiddling with it instead.

“I think I’ll have a smoke,” he finally says. He stands from his seat and walks away, muttering to himself: _‘I swear these bitches got no sense of humor.’_

From Abbachio’s general direction, Narancia’s focus shifts back to his friend.

“Uhm, Giorno?” he starts. “We really miss hanging out as a group. And…” He looks at the blond before continuing. “I’m sure you miss it too. Maybe, just for tonight,” he pauses again. “You’d wanna hang out like we used to back in the day?” 

“Narancia, just forget about it for now,” Bruno sighs as he reaches out to pull the boy back into his seat. “Maybe next time—”

“No, Bucciarati,” the braided boy interjects. “It’s fine,” he sighs before taking a gulp of water, as if he were trying to wash down his pride.

“Are you sure?” the older man asks, to which Giorno forces a faint smile before answering.

“Yeah. Let’s have that,” he takes a moment to look at his glass. “After all, I _also_ miss it.”

Narancia’s eyes twinkle with joy. “YESSSSS!!!!!!!!!!” he shouts victoriously. “I’M CALLING TRISH!!! I LOVE YOU, GIORNO!!!! YOU’RE THE FUCKING BEST!!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I—”

“SHUT UP, NARANCIA!!!!” Fugo flares up. “YOU’RE SO GODDAMN NOISY!”

Abbacchio busts the door open, a lit cigarette still in his mouth.

“WAIT, DID I HEAR THAT RIGHT?” he exclaims.

“Yes, Abbacchio. Now go finish your cigarette outside!” Bucciarati shouts as he slams the door in Abbacchio’s face. He sits back down on the table to rub his temples. “Not a moment of peace in this damn house.”

“So… Who’s telling Mista?” Giorno interjects.

And the room falls silent yet again.

Fugo immediately points at Narancia. “He’s telling Mista. He wanted this.”

“Woah woah woah!” Narancia panics. “I—I still need to call Trish!” he says, desperately trying to find an excuse to avoid calling the guy.

“No,” Bucciarati looks him in the eye. “You’re calling him.”

Narancia gulps.

“MISTAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” Narancia cries out as loud as he can. 

“WOULD YOU STOP SHOUTING, FOR THE LOVE OF—” Fugo ironically shouts back. He picks up his fork and points it towards the boy. “I’M GONNA DRIVE THIS UP YOUR DAMN FACE—”

“Jeez, guys, you’re all so noisy I—” a groggy Mista whines as he walks down the hall and into the dining area. As soon as he sees his ex, he shuts his mouth and stands at the attention—eyes wide—as if all of the sleepiness is sucked out of his body. 

“Uhm… hey,” he says quietly, trying his best to avoid eye contact with his former lover, but fails. After taking a quick glance at the blond’s green eyes, he immediately looks down on the floor.

“Hey… Mista,” Giorno tries to speak. “I… uhhh… Narancia?” he turns to his friend for help.

“Uh… oh yeah!” a stunned Narancia blurts out. “Uhm… we’re going out for drinks tonight. W-with you, of course! Just like the good ol’ times?” he smiles sheepishly.

“O-Oh,” Mista mouths. He places a hand on his nape to rub it awkwardly. “Uh… I, uh,” he makes an attempt to speak. “I, uh, don’t think I can, man… R-Really,” he looks up the ceiling, hoping for some form of divine intervention. “I, uh—Ah! I have a, uh, group project to work on!” he finally comes up with an excuse. “The one for Signora Ricci’s class, remember? Yeah, my group and I will be working on it over the weekend. So uh… Yeah, Sorry.” 

Bucciarati raises a brow at Mista, obviously unconvinced. “Seems like a very important commitment,” he comments a little too coldly.

Mista tries to put on a smile, doing his best to avoid eye contact with his friend. “Yeah… Signora Ricci’s really got me and my group whipped,” he forces a laugh.

“Awwww man, that sucks,” an oblivious Narancia whines. “And I thought we’d finally get a grand reunion,” his shoulders droop. 

“Sorry, Narancia,” Mista walks towards the table and places his hand on the younger boy’s shoulders. “Next time, I promise. It’ll be on me!” he winks.

“You better get the next one ‘coz you owe us big time!” the boy pouts. After giving one last look at his friend who was wielding a weirdly wide grin, they nod at each other before Narancia stands up to head for the door. “C’mon guys,” he huffs. “Last one out’s buying the first round!”

As the rest of the group shake their heads at Narancia’s child-like remark, they slowly make their way to the door, except for a tan man in a plain white shirt with lounge shorts, and a braided blond who takes his coat from the back of the chair to drape neatly over his forearm.

A few seconds of silence envelopes the room.

“Uhm…” Giorno tries to initiate.

“Y-yeah?”

“Good luck… I guess,” the blond finally says. “Hope you—”

“Yeah you too,” Mista cuts him off dismissively, leaving no room for the other to finish his sentence. He swiftly turns around and heads back to his room, slamming the door a little too loudly; enough to make Giorno flinch. 

The blond was stunned. Never in all the times he’d been with Mista had the man ever felt this cold and callous. Was it because he tried reaching out to him after their breakup? Was it because Mista had found someone else—someone who could finally replace him? His heart starts to feel heavy. And just before he feels his throat tighten and dry up...

A long and loud honk of Bucciarati’s car rocks him back to his senses.

“Come on, cazzone!” a rather irritated Fugo screams from the SUV’s window. “Quit stalling! First round’s on you!”

Giorno shakes his head disapprovingly. “Tsk… This is useless... Useless,” he mutters to himself as he exits the dorm. 

“Sure took your sweet time,” Abbacchio says to Giorno, who is fastening his seatbelt.

Bucciarati decides to join in. “Yeah Giorno, my patience is starting to run out too, you know,” he says as he pulls out of the driveway and heads for their usual bar.

“Don’t forget you still owe me my own bucket,” Fugo lightly smacks Giorno on the back of the head. 

Despite all of the playful and cheerful exchanges happening in the car, all of these fail to drown out the thoughts screaming in Giorno’s mind—thoughts of Mista acting so harshly towards him, but what’s worse is the fact that Mista doesn’t seem to acknowledge how _he_ was reaching out to the guy; how he was making an effort to extend his hand for the other to take… But he didn’t. Giorno finally accepts the probable reason behind it:

Mista couldn’t meet him halfway because he was too busy meeting someone else.

He sighs. 

“You okay there, buddy?” Narancia chimes in upon noticing the blond’s lack of interest in the group’s chitchat. 

“Yeah, I—” he stops the moment he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He brings it out to see the notification—half expecting to see, at least, an apology from Mista.

> _‘Heavens_DoorR: I’m in Napoli, on the way to your university. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”_

Upon seeing Rohan’s username, Giorno quickly flips the phone over to hide the screen. Biting his lip, he slowly turns it back around as he shifts towards the window; his back slightly facing Narancia.

> _Golden_HarunoS: What? What do you mean? I’m confused_

But before the blond could hit ‘send’, the boy beside him immediately notices this.

“Oh? Oh hoho! Why’s your back turned against me, man? Are you busy?” he jokingly remarks. “Hey Giorno…Don’t tell me your messaging Rohan?!?” he says loudly and laughs, getting the attention of the other men in the car.

It takes Giorno a while to respond. He then sits upright and looks straight to where Bucciarati and Abbacchio are seated. With a stern voice, he says, “Yes. Let me out of the car.”

“Hey! Don’t think we’re letting you off that easy,” Fugo objects. “First rounds on—”

The braided boy swiftly takes his wallet out and shoves a couple of bills to the other blond, eyeing him coldly. “Here, that should cover, right?” He brings his eyes back towards the driver’s seat. And as soon as Bucciarati steals a quick glance at the young blond from the rearview mirror, Giorno announces, “I just have to go. I’m sorry.”

Fugo begrudgingly takes the bills. “Giorno what the fuck, you can’t just—”

“GIORNO’S GONNA MEET UP WITH ROHAN!” a loud Narancia screeches.

Bruno hits the brakes a little too hard than he normally would; just enough to send the passengers leaning forward due to the momentum. As the car comes to a complete stop, Bucciarati starts to thank the heavens that they were the only car in sight.

Without saying a word, Bucciarati and Abbacchio face each other and slyly eye Giorno together. They give each other a nod.

“Giorno, get out,” Bruno rigidly says. 

“Uhm, excuse me, what?”

“Are you getting out or not?” 

“I will, I will,” Giorno finally obliges. “Thanks, Bucciarati. Thanks, guys,” he says before finally stepping out.

Before the car speeds away, Abbacchio lowers his window and tosses Giorno something. The blond catches the pack of condoms and a few sachets of lube. He brings his eyes quickly at the long haired-man. He can faintly see Bucciarati smirking behind him.

“Have fun, ragazzo! But not too much fun!” Abbacchio cheekily winks as he brings his window back up. Giorno could faintly hear Hall & Oate’s _Maneater_ playing in the car as it fades away into the street.

Giorno looks at Abbacchio’s ‘gift’ and winces. ‘ _He really doesn’t know how to read the room, does he?’_ he thinks to himself. He shoves them into his pocket and brings his phone out, only to realize that his last message wasn’t sent.

He takes a look around to get his bearings and spots a cafe nearby. He starts typing his message to Rohan.

> _Golden_HarunoS: Sorry I took a while. I’ll be at Caffe Atelier de Trussardi. It should be easy to Google. Near the university._
> 
> _Heavens_DoorR: Gimme 15 mins_

~~~

It takes him a 5-minute walk to head to the cafe. Upon arriving, he notices two or three other customers seated at their own tables, with their eyes glued at the glass panel—as if they, too, were waiting for someone to arrive. He makes his way to the counter, orders a coffee, and finds himself his own seat.

He takes a sip while looking out the window, keeping an eye out for the man. He starts to think.

_‘Why is he here? Did he fly all the way to Italy just because of… me?’_

As he entertains his thoughts, a man in an apron approaches him.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like to try out our newest pastry? They’re free.”

“Ah, sure,” he takes one of the tube-shaped pastries, a cannolo, from the tray. He notices a generous amount of the filling take up a slightly different color—a swirled mix of brown and pink. He looks at the server. “Thank you, uhm…”

“Antonio Trussardi, my young sir,” the man fills in. “You may call me Tonio. This quaint place is my first ever establishment. So, what brings you here at this hour? It’s quite late already,” the man, Tonio, inquires.

“Oh. I’m just waiting for someone. He should be here in a few,” the blond replies as he takes a bite of the cannolo. “Oh, it’s really good. Chocolate and strawberry?”

The server’s eyes twinkle at what he just heard. A faint smile creases his lips.

“Yes! You’re absolutely right! Here take another, for your friend,” the chef offers.

Giorno takes another and gives him a small smile, as if to say thanks.

“Well sir,” Tonio starts. “This humble cafe has quite a reputation in this town, you know.”

“What do you mean?” the boy asks. “But please, just call me Giorno.”

“You see, Giorno,” Tonio continues. “Much like the other customers in here, they are all waiting for someone. And believe me, young one, those who share a moment under this roof end up becoming lovers….” he then pauses. “I see you must like your friend a lot.”

His heart skips a beat. It takes Giorno a few seconds to understand what Tonio meant.

The blond catches himself smiling. He immediately tries to hide it, but fails as his cheeks also begin to flush red and warm up.

“I—” he begins to stutter. “You must be mistaken, Tonio. I—”

“The look in your eyes says otherwise,” the chef’s warm grin doesn’t waver. 

And just as he is about to continue, a sleek dark green car pulls up in front of the cafe. Its driver quickly shuts off the engine and jumps out of the vehicle, revealing a chic and elegant-looking man dressed in black from head to toe, making his way to the cafe. He immediately spots the blond through the window and smiles, giving a small and reserved wave. 

Tonio notices this and turns to Giorno. “Well then, my friend. I'll see you when our paths cross again,” he winks and heads to a different table to attend to the other guests.

Giorno affixes his eyes on the man in black who is taking long strides until the doors to the cafe gently open. He starts to feel his cheeks warm up once again as the man he has been waiting for finally stands before him.

“I hope I wasn’t too late,” are the first words the artist utters to the blond. He then removes his overcoat and places it over the seat before sitting down. He takes a moment to admire the braided blond; how beautiful the boy looks—as always—and how his cheeks seem to be daintily touched with the perfect shade of pink that complemented those mesmerizing emerald eyes. 

Giorno averts the tender gaze, trying his best to stop himself from smiling out of sheer happiness and excitement. “So after ditching me in Paris, you fly all the way to Napoli just to see me,” he finally says. And as he shifts his eyes to meet Rohan's, he asks just a tad bit teasingly, “Why?”

“I’ve missed you,” he says sweetly as he tucks a loose lock of the golden hair behind the boy’s ear. His hand lingers just a moment longer, cherishing the feeling. Their eyes lock on to each other, sharing the moment as if they were the only two people in the cafe. And just as he was about to retract, the younger man takes his own hand out and catches Rohan’s, pulling him in even closer.

“I missed you too, Rohan,” the boy confesses as he places the artist’s hand on his cheek, holding on to it and letting its warmth meet with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back with a new chapter! Writing the Bucci Gang being all casual and fun was really enjoyable. I gotta admit, writing this series as a whole is a huge stress-reliever. Thank you to the ones who are still hanging around with this brainrot 😂 My friend and I appreciate it a whole lot!! 
> 
> I wonder what happens next...? (hint: it's coming pretty soon)
> 
> Feel free to shout at me over at Twitter ([@yo_nanji](http://twitter.com/yo_nanji))! See you at the next update!


	3. Waste It On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And I know there's no making this right, this right  
> And I know there's no changing your mind, your mind  
> But we both found each other tonight, tonight  
> So if love is nothing more than just a waste of your time
> 
> Waste it on me."
> 
> (from _Waste it On Me_ by Steve Aoki and BTS)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill. Aged-up characters to avoid awkward age gaps + no one's a minor here~
> 
> This chapter has some non-explicit sexual tension/content. Not exactly sure if it's enough to be considered NSFW coz it's really in a grey area?? So until we figure things out (lol), this'll remain T+.

There was not a single cloud in sight throughout the Italian night sky. Beneath the gentle evening light, two people walk out of a quaint little cafe and head to the parked car nearby.

“You know you should’ve let me pay for dinner,” Giorno comments as his companion opens the door for him.

“I was feeling generous,” Rohan simply answers with a smile and closes the door shortly after seeing the blond settle on the seat. He then walks to the other side of the car and hops in.

As the two fasten their seatbelts, Rohan starts the engine. 

“So, where are we going?” the younger one asks.

“Nowhere in particular,” the mangaka winks at him as they pull out onto the road. “I just wanted to enjoy this night and take in the sights that Napoli has to offer.”

“Driving with no destination in mind? That’s a bit absurd.” 

Rohan sighs. “Sometimes, Giorno, it’s not the destination that matters,” he glances at the blond. “It’s who you’re with during the journey.”

“Are the Japanese always this eccentric?”

“Do Westerners really have a lot to say about Asians?” 

Giorno does a small pout as soon as he hears what Rohan said. From the corner of his eye, he could see the artist give him a slightly annoyed look before returning his attention to the road. Yet as the drive continued on, the blond’s lips started to curl and form a smile. He hears the other snicker a bit, just enough to make him laugh a bit louder. They both look at each other, and let out a hearty laugh in unison.

They start heading through the busy streets of the city. They pass through familiar sites; the gang’s university, the dorms, and even the gang’s favorite bar. Giorno could even faintly make out a Narancia who was drunk out of his mind, puking by the side alley as they drove by. He giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Rohan asks.

“It’s nothing,” the blond answers, trying his best to hold back a wide grin. “I think I just saw Narancia throwing up when we passed by the bar I usually go to with my friends.”

The other man chuckles. “Don’t tell me I snatched you from a night out with your buddies?”

“What if I said yes?”

“I must be so damn important to you, then,” he smirks.“Don’t let it get to your head,” Giorno teases back.

As the drive went on, they encountered less and less cars and people on the street. Finally, the moon shone brightly above the lone car driving down the road by the seaside. Rohan brings the car windows down and lets the gentle sea breeze greet them.

“Ahh, I love quiet nights like these. Don’t you think?” he turns to the blond.

“Hmm, yeah. It’s lovely,” Giorno hums in agreement, shifting to face the man.

A thin smile creases the artist’s lips. He takes a look at the sea. Calm, alluring, inviting. He then looks back at the blond who had just returned his focus on the outside scenery. He sees Giorno admiring the waters that reflect the glow of the moon above, and how the gentle waves made the reflection shimmer and dance. 

Rohan starts to slow the car down, and finds a nearby layaway to park.

“Let's take a closer look?” he offers as he unfastens his seatbelt. To which the blond indulges. 

They make their way to the edge of the layaway, just to where the land meets the sea. Nothing else was there; not a single car or person in sight, just the comforting silence of the night.

“It looks even more beautiful up close,” Giorno marvels at the sight.

“I think you’re more beautiful,” the artist whispers under his breath.

“What?” 

“What?” Rohan’s eyes widen. He didn’t think the other would hear his musings. He turns to his side to meet Giorno’s questioning look. “I meant to say it’s quite weird hearing those words from a local,” he lies his way out of it.

“I also think you’re more beautiful,” Giorno faces him. “So stop lying to me.”

The braided blond leans in closer. And the artist returns the gesture.

The two stand in silence, looking out into the dark. The waves churn rhythmically, while the breeze caresses their faces, lulling them in with its tranquility. They share the solemn scene together, without feeling a single need to utter any other word. As Giorno gazes into the horizon where the moon's humble light outlines the edge of the waters, he feels a familiar warmth well up in his chest. He bites his lip as an attempt to hide a smile that was creeping up his face. He breathes in deeply. The night is beautiful, that he knows truly well—his entire being could scream it to the heavens proudly. He finally understood what Rohan had mentioned earlier.

He takes his eyes off the moonlit scenery for a moment and meets Rohan’s deep green eyes; intense yet warm, and simply captivating.

Destinations don’t matter to him anymore. What matters most, at this very moment, is the man next to him.

And he was sure that the other felt the same way.

By now, the air had started to get a little chilly. Giorno burrows his hands into his pockets. He lets himself move in closer to the artist. “I’m feeling a little cold,” he says.

“Oh,” the other mouths. “I’ll get the spare coat in the car—”

“No, silly,” he says before taking his hand out to grab Rohan’s sleeve, pulling him back even closer now. “I want you. Not the stupid coat.”

The mangaka huffs out a small chuckle. He lets the blond pull him in before wrapping his arms around the younger in a full embrace. 

“You know, I think the coat would’ve been better,” Rohan comments. “Unless you said you were cold just so you could have me do this,” he grins.

“Who knows,” Giorno says as he coils his arms around the artist to return the embrace.

Rohan closes his eyes, cherishing the sweet moment. Shortly afterward, he opens his eyes only to have his attention caught by a few seemingly out-of-place objects lying by their feet.

He momentarily breaks off contact to pick up a couple packs of condoms and sachets of lube that must’ve fallen out of Giorno’s pockets. 

“Oh?” the artist smirks as he brings the items in front of Giorno. 

“Uh… I-I can explain—”

“No no, no need,” Rohan’s smirk grows even wider. “I just,” he covers his mouth and stifles a laugh. “I just didn’t know you like to _come_ prepared,” he counts the number of condoms in his hand. “Maybe a little _too_ prepared.”

“T-That was literally tossed to me by my friends before I met up with you,” the blond stutters as he does his best to keep his cool. “D-don’t get any funny ideas,” he looks the other way, hoping that the artist doesn’t notice his face practically glowing red from embarrassment. Abbacchio is definitely gonna pay for this.

Rohan raises his brow inquisitively. “So... your friends know about us? You do know we’re not a thing, right?”

Giorno’s eyes flicker at the statement.

“What if I want _us_ to _have_ something?” he presses forward assertively, making sure that his leg lightly brushes against the artist’s. 

“Giorno, I think _you_ have the wrong idea,” Rohan scoffs. He takes a step back, partly stunned by how quickly the blond changed his behavior. 

But the younger one doesn’t recoil. He takes a step further to close in the gap, looking deeply into the artist’s eyes. 

“Rohan, why don’t we take this back to your place?” he tempts him. “You can make up your mind then,” he continues as he slyly brings his hand around Rohan’s nape to pull himself closer to the man, and lowers his head. He brushes his lips lightly against the artist’s neck and places a soft kiss on it, strongly fighting back the urge to taint and mark the pristine skin.

The moment Rohan felt the blond’s lips on his neck, he knew he was at Giorno’s mercy. He tries to laugh it off like it was nothing, but his demeanor tells a different story. As if that single kiss had sucked all the air out of his lungs and thrown him into a stormy sea, and as soon as he’d resurfaced, he was hungrily gasping for more.

Hearing the artist’s bated breathing rouses something inside Giorno. Something that’s been asleep since Paris. He smiles deviously at this as he places another kiss—only this time, a bit more slowly and a whole lot longer. He then rises to look at Rohan, completely flustered and red.

“What do you say?” He smiles innocently. “Let’s head back to your place?”

Rohan doesn’t move. Whether what he encountered just now was an angel or a devil, he’ll probably never know.

“Oh I just remembered,” he grabs the key from Rohan. “You don’t even want to lift a finger, was it?”

The blond turns around and playfully traipses towards the car. But just before he reaches the driver’s door, the older man catches up with him and swipes back the keys he lost.

“Fine,” he gives in. “Let’s go back,” he takes a good look at the pair of emerald eyes piercing right through him. “You know I can never refuse my muse. Even if I tried.”

“That’s more like it,” Giorno whispers against the artist’s ear before heading to the other side of the car.

The artist takes a good look at his companion in the passenger seat. Back in Paris, he was sure that what he saw was something divine. But now more than ever, he wasn’t quite sure anymore. But it didn’t really matter. Not for now at least. He gets in the car and they leave the serene seaside to head for the noisy and bright city lights. 

To say that their ride was quiet is an understatement. Rohan’s mind is busy distracting him from putting all of his focus on the road. His eyes keep swerving from what’s in front of him to the boy beside him. He wonders what changed in a matter of weeks. It’s as if the two had switched bodies; Giorno now being more daring and assertive, while Rohan being uncharacteristically timid and nervous.

“Eyes on the road, Rohan,” Giorno chimes. “You can focus on me later when we’re in your room. Let’s try to get back there in one piece.”

Like a deer caught in the headlights, the mangaka couldn’t respond to the younger man’s teasing. His body tenses, his grip on the wheel tightens, and he forces himself to say something—anything. 

But nothing comes out.

 _‘Fuck this is gonna be a long drive,’_ Rohan thinks to himself. His eyes start to wander towards the blond again, but the passenger catches him in the act.

The artist immediately shifts his gaze back to the road, trying to act as if he hadn’t been caught sneaking a peek.

“Tsk, tsk,” Giorno softly laughs. “You’re really bad at following orders.”

The drive back to the artist’s hotel was only around 35 minutes, but it sure felt like a whole grueling hour—much thanks to a particular blond who knew just exactly how to get his blood rushing in all the wrong places at the worst possible time. At the very moment he parks the car, Giorno unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out. He walks over to the driver’s side and waits for the artist to do the same.

“Taking your sweet time?” the younger asks.

“No,” the mangaka answers after opening his door. “But you do know good things come to those who wait, right?” he raises his brow.

“I think I’ve waited for far too long already,” Giorno feigns. “Like I said before, Rohan, I’m tired of all this chasing.” 

“Oh?” Rohan manages to crack a smile while he gets out of his car. “You sure it’s me you’re chasing? Not that ‘Miiszta’ or whatever? You know I don’t like being used as some toy.”

For a split-second, the artist thought he saw the young blond lose composure as soon as he uttered the name. The fire burning in Giorno’s eyes was momentarily extinguished. 

Rohan blinks in disbelief and exhales through his nose. Only to be met with the same burning eyes that he saw back at the layaway. 

“I don’t care about Mista,” Giorno manages to say; hoping that the artist doesn’t notice the small crack hiding behind it.

Rohan sighs slightly. “We’ll see about that,” he says as he starts heading into the hotel, leaving Giorno to lag behind him.

They enter a quaint and compact hotel; much more humble than what Rohan booked back in Paris. The lobby appears small and would have trouble holding around 30 people. And instead of extravagant furniture, homely fixtures are modestly placed and accented with numerous frames of vintage photos and artworks as well as a few potted plants to warmly greet guests.

Taking a look around the cozy yet artistic lobby, Giorno comments. “Hmm, this is a lot less luxurious, but I can clearly see why it appealed to you so much.” He turns to Rohan, “I never knew such a hotel existed in the city.”

“I guess even in your hometown, Giorno, you can find wonders,” Rohan says as he leads the other to the elevator.

“I know,” the braided man whispers to himself while walking beside the artist. They reach the elevators and call one. As they wait, Giorno turns his head to face Rohan. And the moment their eyes meet, he declares, “I know I have.”

They smile at each other affectionately. And in a few more moments, the ring of the elevator bell is heard and the doors open. They enter and Rohan punches in the button for the 4th floor. After a brief period of waiting, the bell rings once more and the doors open.

The artist is the first to step out, followed closely behind by the blond. They walk down a narrow corridor and stop at room 404. Rohan rifles through his pockets for the keycard and unlocks the door. The two enter.

“There’s a couch over there,” Rohan points out as he lightly tosses his belongings onto a small desk. “I know you hate tea, but it’s the only thing the hotel—”

The artist was cut off mid-sentence as the blond grabs him by the arm, and pushes him onto the sofa. Rohan’s eyes widened; before him stood Giorno, eyes locked onto him.

“You know I don’t care for tea right now,” the younger man inches closer. “I don’t care about anything,” he places his knee on the couch, just beside Rohan’s thigh. “Except for you.”

“Let’s not get hasty now—”

Giorno plants a finger on the other’s lips and sighs. “Rohan, don’t make me say it the fourth time,” his eyes piercing right through the man beneath him.

The glint in the blond’s eyes is undeniable. The artist can’t help but be hypnotized by the pair of inviting emeralds right in front of him. No matter how hard he tries to avoid it, he can’t escape the younger one’s gaze.

“You’re tired of all this chasing,” Rohan answers, taking the blond’s hand by the wrist. “I know,” and with a forceful tug, he gets a taste of the lips of the other. 

Rohan had almost forgotten what Giorno’s lips felt like. He places a hand behind the younger’s head, holding him close as he continues to indulge at the moment he hadn’t felt in so long. As their lips lock, the artist lets himself sink back into the sofa. He leads Giorno on top of him, settling the blond on his lap as they deepen their kiss, fully tasting each other. Their lips part for a brief second. The artist shoots him a look and whispers:

“Alright, you win.” 

The blond obliges and presses back, hungrily smothering his lips against Rohan’s. He straddles him, hips moving and building a good and steady rhythm as he grows desperate for more. He feels a pair of hands slowly make their way around his waist, gently caressing his figure before trailing down to his hips. For a moment, Giorno thinks it was the other’s attempt to stop him, but he ends up letting out a low and satisfied hum as the hands firmly grip on to him while the artist matches with his rhythm. 

Giorno breaks away from the kiss, and repositions himself just so he sits upright atop the artist’s lap. As they both try to catch their breaths, the blond looks at Rohan with seemingly calculating eyes. His lips curl into a small smile that appears almost… grotesquely innocent and angelic.

The handiwork of the gods are inarguably the pinnacles of ethereal perfection. This was something Rohan had always known. But with the blond on his lap, chest heaving as he gasps for air after having come into such intimate contact with him, he becomes even more aware of it:

Giorno Giovanna is absolutely and undeniably charismatic–like a bewitching amalgamation of something twisted and oh so pure, as if he was lovingly sculpted to be too saintly for hell yet too crazed for heaven.

And Rohan, acknowledging his helplessness before the blond, is left wanting more. Is this what Giorno had intended from the start? Like some intricate and well-seasoned plan? Regardless, he pulls himself forward and leans in to close the agonizing distance between them, but the blond drives him back onto the sofa. Without saying another word, the younger man slowly creeps toward him like a predator to its prey. The steely green eyes were the last thing Rohan saw; before he knew it, the blond had pounced. The artist could feel Giorno mouthing at his exposed neck. He gasps at the sensation, and feels the heat in his face get even warmer. Overcome with the blond’s rawness, he relaxes his body which he realized was stiff and tense, as he succumbs to the other’s command.

A kiss here, and another. Gently, then ardently. Rohan couldn’t help but relish in the moment. It felt so good to be at the blond’s mercy like this; to be consumed by their desires. He closes his eyes and lets out a moan of pleasure. Giorno seizes the mangaka’s shirt, forcefully undoing the buttons to reveal more of the skin that hid beneath. And as soon as Rohan is laid bare, the blond resumes devouring him.

This sends Rohan in shudders. His heart was already beating fast since their moment by the sea, but right now, it feels as if his heart is quickly pumping out uneasiness throughout his system. The young blond right before him seemed to distort; shifting between what looked like an angel and a demon each time the artist blinks. Fuck, even his vision is starting to blur out, making everything seem to move slowly. He can almost swear that he could hear Giorno laughing at him, taunting him as the blond moans out Mista’s name. The initial sensation that he felt from that first kiss was quickly fading, and he knew he had to do something to stop things from escalating any further. 

“Wait Giorno—”

Giorno stubbornly ignores and pretends like he didn’t hear it. He hastily tries to undress. His fingers fumbling over the buttons as they become undone. He reaches inside his pockets and pulls out the pack of condoms.

At the sight of this, Rohan firmly grabs Giorno’s shoulders and pushes him to the side with a lot more effort than he intended. The force being enough to shake Giorno back to his senses. 

“What, why?” the blond asks. In his shocked state, he moves away from Rohan, creating an uneasy distance between them. 

Rohan doesn’t say anything. He could only sit there as he catches his breath while the younger one stares him down as if he had been betrayed. The winded artist slowly regains control of his breathing. He looks at the blond one more time and sighs deeply.

“I’m sorry, Giorno,” the artist finally speaks. He walks toward the young man and pulls him in a long, tight embrace. “I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

“I don’t understand,” the blond breathes dryly, utterly confused. Despite this, he slowly brings his arms across the other’s back, clinging on to him. 

And too afraid to let go.

Rohan knows all too well how a person’s body heat changes ever so slightly with their emotions. He knew _that_ much from what little time he had spent with Giorno. And with the way the blond sank into him, dead still and excruciatingly silent, he felt the desirous heat of an unworldly enchanter get reduced to the warmth of a simple boy—innocent, lost, and all too fearful.

“I’m sorry, Giorno,” he whispers this time, hoping to get some other form of response aside from the grip that was starting to grow stronger and more unyielding.

The blond hears his name escape from the artist’s lips. The very lips he has learned to long for and adore. Rohan’s voice, although dry and raspy, felt like a beacon that tethered him to reality—reeling him back in.

But not to where he wanted.

He buries his face at the crook of the other’s neck and breathes out through his nose. He presses himself against Rohan with a different kind of desperation.

Rohan calls out to the younger once again, this time almost inaudibly. He runs his hand on the blond’s back, trying to soften the blow. Yet the blond’s silence already tells Rohan that the damage has been done.

“P-Please…” a small voice finally croaks. “Don’t do this, Rohan.”

Upon hearing his name, the artist swore he felt something warm pooling by his neck. His throat tightens up. 

“Giorno,” he tries to speak whilst on the verge of tears himself. Rohan does his best to suppress the lump in his throat that’s choking him up.

He nearly hisses out a curse, stopping himself just in time for it to come out as a sigh. He looks towards the pale yellow ceiling then to the golden braids of the boy he so wanted to protect. To keep for himself. To love.

He begins to question if he had committed a sin so grave for him to be given a taste of something he knows he can never even hope to have. Was this the gods’ punishment for him? A punishment for daring to touch the sun—a presence and magnificence so ceaseless and searing, it is enough to render him insignificant. Still, he runs his fingers through the boy’s soft hair. 

“Could you look at me, please?” the artist utters a soft whisper. 

And slowly, the blond lifts his head to face Rohan; his once piercing green eyes now blurred, red, and overflowing with tears. 

Without another word, he places a kiss on Giorno’s forehead. Fervent and brimming with emotion—knowing fully well that it’ll be the last few ones that he will ever give.

As soon as his lips parted from the boy’s head, he feels the gentle caress of bittersweet contentment fill him. If his punishment was to follow his rational brain over his aching heart, then so be it.

“We can’t go on like this,” the artist calmly utters.

“What do you mean?” Giorno bites his lower lip to stop it from trembling.

“We can’t keep on pretending and lying to ourselves—”

“Who said anything about pretending?” the blond cuts in sharply. “Who said _I_ was pretending?” he breathes in sharply. “Who said _I_ was _lying_?”

“Giorno—”

“Tell me!” he shouts. Loud enough to echo across the room. And with a deep sigh, the blond closes his eyes. Tears once again trailing off from his eyes.

“I never once lied to you,” he chokes. “Especially with my feelings,” he tries to meet the artist’s eyes, but couldn’t muster up the courage to do so. He ends up looking at the floor, watching as the tears fall onto the carpet, staining them.

Rohan takes the blond by the shoulders and meets him in the eye. 

“You’re not lying to me,” he swallows the lump in his throat. He takes a moment to compose himself before continuing. “You’ve been lying to yourself.”

The blond doesn’t speak, choosing to break eye contact again and continue watching droplets of his own tears fall on the floor.

“I knew it ever since Paris,” Rohan’s tears begin to well up the moment he utters the name. He abruptly wipes them away with the sleeve of his arm. “It’s not me who you want. So please…,” he uses every ounce of strength he has to avoid choking up. 

“Let’s stop this.”

“Well our time in Paris is over, can’t you understand that? Can’t you see that? Many things have happened since then, and I’ve never been more sure about this, yet here you are,” Giorno stands his ground. “Preaching like you know me any better! You don’t!”

“I’m not saying that—”

“Then _why!?_ ” the boy cries out. “Fuck, why?!”

“Just—”

“Just answer me, Rohan!!” he lashes out at the man in front of him. He swats Rohan’s arms away from him, demanding an explanation.

“You still _fucking_ love Mista, Giorno!”

The room gets filled with silence that was so intense, Rohan is sure he could hear the strained beating of his own heart.

“W-what?” the blond stutters, his voice shaky and puzzled. He takes a step back from the shock. “Y-you’re lying! You wouldn’t know. ”

“You called out to him back in Paris.”

“I was drunk!”

“That wasn’t the only instance!” Rohan quickly responds in a sharp voice, like thunder answering to lightning. He sighs as a way to calm himself down. He takes a momentary pause before speaking once again:

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

A pang of pain strikes Giorno’s chest upon hearing those all-too-familiar words. He has seen them once… back in Paris. He suddenly remembers Rohan holding him so lovingly and kissing him gently, only for him to disappear the morning after. He finally connects the dots.

“Is that why you…?”

“Yes, that is _precisely_ why I left,” Rohan confirms without needing the question to be completed. 

“So you disappeared without an explanation and now you came back out of the blue?” Giorno hisses, his face contorted and painted with hurt and betrayal. “To do what, exactly? To mess around with me and break my heart so you could have your _sweet_ revenge?”

“I _came back_ because I love you, Giorno!” The artist exclaims. “I flew all the way to you because I couldn’t just leave you hanging like that. I went all the way here because I really did miss you. I missed listening to your voice, I missed looking at you, I missed touching you, I missed kissing you, I missed _holding_ you, but—” he stops himself as if his own words were choking him, making it hard to breathe. 

“I can’t keep you to myself, knowing that I can’t give you the love that you’re looking for,” he finally gives in and confesses.

“What do you mean?” the blond starts to slowly move forward. “I don’t understand.” He thumps his forehead on the other’s chest.

Still, the other doesn’t answer.

Out of frustration, he clenches his fists against the artist, gripping onto the unbuttoned shirt. “Make me understand,” he desperately demands.

Nothing.

“Why…Tell me, Rohan,” the blond who, at one point, had the mangaka wrapped around his finger is now reduced to whimpers and hiccups, his voice now thick and laced with exhaustion. A defeated Giorno rests his head on the artist’s tear-stained chest. His firm and anger-ridden grip now loosened, barely brushing against the other’s body.

And just like that, the artist feels a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. 

It isn’t fucking easy.

He tries to keep himself as composed as he could be despite what little paling fortitude he has left.

He hated himself for hurting over choosing Giorno’s true happiness more than his own. But more than that…

“Giorno,” he feels his voice crack. 

He hated himself for loving the name too much—for loving the boy all _too_ much. 

“I love you,” he whispers. His eyes that were focused on the boy are now starting to blur from the tears that keep on pooling up only to spill and freely trail down his face. “I really do… I’m sorry.” He bites his lower lip as hard as he could to restrain himself from raising his hands and bringing them to the blond. 

“Then why leave?” Giorno spits out the words bitterly, his face still buried against Rohan. He clenches his hands into fists once again. “You’re being so unfair.”

The mangaka closes his eyes at this, letting more of his tears flow. He wonders if the man in front of him could feel how loud and fast his heart was beating. And as if on cue, the blond wraps his arms around him. 

“You’re the one who’s being unfair,” he says under his breath, yet still making sure that the statement made its point across.

The blond responds by lifting his head to meet eyes with the artist; his gaze tinged with questions. With his mouth agape, he tries to speak, but ends up staying silent as Rohan continues.

“Tell me... Have I ever even once crossed your mind since Paris? Have you ever thought of me out of the blue? Or did your friends have to bring up your trip, just so you remember that I even existed?”

Giorno’s eyes widened. He feels his entire body freeze upon hearing the words. He didn’t want to face it. No. It’s not right. _‘Fuck,’_ he thinks to himself. He feels his heart stop for a full second—as if the sharp coldness has stabbed it. He moves away once again; his breaths becoming unstable and more labored, made heavy by the shame that was starting to overwhelm him. He hates to admit it… But the man confronting him was right:

He never really thought about Rohan ever since he got back from Paris.

Because it had always been Mista. 

He looks away from the artist. 

“Guilty as charged,” Rohan tiredly sighs, doing a lousy job of trying to hide the pain he so obviously felt. “I know. I knew it ever since that night at your hotel room,” he takes a few steps forward. “Which is why I wanted to see you… For the last time,” he confesses. “Maybe hold you again. Let you know just how much I love you—”

“Before you leave me…” the blond cuts in.

“Before I finally let you go,” the artist corrects him as he pulls him into a tight embrace. “Because right now, I’m still not ready.”

“Then why do this?” 

“Because it’s what’s best for both of us, and you know it just as much as I do.”

Giorno no longer replies. He sets aside his own selfishness and agrees through his silence. Maybe he still hasn’t sorted out his feelings properly. Maybe he saw Rohan as the perfect person who could heal his wounds and give him an entirely new chance at love… ‘ _And he is,’_ he thinks to himself. But as long as his heart yearns for Mista, he knows that it will only hurt both him and Rohan in the process… And it really, really isn’t fair.

Maybe it really was for the best.

He reciprocates the embrace with the same amount of ardor as the artist’s, pouring as much emotion and love into it as he could, hoping that the other could feel it. 

“I’m sorry,” Giorno whispers solemnly. “I’m really sorry, Rohan… I—”

“It’s alright, my morning sun,” the older man soothingly answers as he runs a hand through the soft golden locks, gently caressing the boy to console him. “No matter what you do, this fool will always be a fool for his muse,” he smiles, even if the other doesn’t see it. 

The blond is the first to part away from their embrace. “This sun doesn’t deserve you.”

The artist hums at the remark to show that he was thinking of what to say. “You’re right. He truly doesn’t deserve a lowly fool like me. But here I am, being graced by his presence,” he smiles. This time, he shows it to the boy; sincere yet dappled with that shared look of hurt that sends a sting to the blond's chest.

“W-when is your flight back to Japan?” the younger asks gingerly, trying to change the topic.

“Tomorrow afternoon. 3:15 PM, to be exact,” an answer comes shortly.

“I see…,” Giorno trails off and looks the other way, as if turning his head away would somehow also turn the tides of reality to head to the direction he wants. With the way Rohan answered him, promptly and directly, he knows that there’s no changing the artist’s mind this time around. 

Noticing the silence, Rohan clears his throat.

“You know, the coffee here is really something else,” he says, hoping that a bit of small talk might get the blond to respond and not dwell on the weight of separation. “I used to have it back in Japan, but the way it’s prepared here is very interesting.”

“Mmm… yeah, I guess,” Giorno mumbles back to him, clearly unengaged in the conversation. He couldn’t get his mind off of tomorrow, when they finally part ways. He mentally tries to find a safe place for him to think, yet all his thoughts could do was race around in every direction. He tries to hold on to the short drive he shared with the artist, and how liberating it had felt, but his mind finds a way to pull him down even further:

There was no particular destination from the very beginning because it would all lead to a burning bridge; fuelled with a passion that was ignited so quickly it set aflame like wildfire, hungrily consuming everything at its sight only to die away once everything is reduced to lifeless ashes.

“You alright?” Rohan asks, his tone coated with concern.

“Hm, yeah, sure,” Giorno whispers back, his voice drained of all emotion.

“You don’t seem fine,” the artist presses on further. “Do you have something on your mind?”

“Just tired, I guess,” the blond sighs as he makes his way to Rohan’s bed and proceeds to sit on it. “Mind if I stay for the night?” 

“Of course,” the artist lovingly responds with a gentle smile. He follows Giorno and caresses his cheek before tucking a loose curl behind his ear—one of the things Rohan realized he liked doing. He looks at the boy in front of him: beautiful as ever. His gaze trails down from the golden blond hair, the swollen green eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and—he raises his brow. 

“But damn, you're wearing outside clothes,” he sighs defeatedly.

Giorno doesn’t say a word. He shoots Rohan an annoyed look before he fully caves in and lets out an unrestrained laugh. Tears escape from his eyes again; but this time, he doesn’t know if it was from the leftover sadness or from the awfully terrible punchline.

“Really? This again?” he says. 

“Before you say anything,” the artist quickly responds. “Yes, it’s an Asian thing.”

Upon hearing those words, the blond scoffs, kicks his shoes off, and proceeds to lie down on the bed; spreading himself, making sure to take up as much space as possible.

Rohan groans at this and brings a hand to his forehead. If it’s worth anything, seeing Giorno sprawled all over the bed like that looks so freakin’ adorable.

“Get your dirty ass clothes off my bed, damnit!” he tries to wrestle Giorno off the bed, clinging onto the boy’s pants. 

Meanwhile, the blond drops all of his weight, making it harder for the artist to get him off the bed. Little did he notice that the garter of the pants were slowly slipping down the boy’s waist. 

“Damnit Giorno,” Rohan struggles to say while pulling the blond. “You’re being so rude! You’re a guest in my hotel room!”

“And you’re just a guest in my country,” Giorno answers back as he clings onto the edge of the bed, struggling to keep himself on the comforts of Rohan’s hotel mattress.

Annoyed, the mangaka plants himself on the foot of the bed, he firmly grips the pants of the blond, and heaves. It takes him a couple more tries before finally removing the ‘filthy’ clothes from the boy, revealing a pink pair of boxers.

“There,” he dusts his hands, as if to remove the dirt from the pants he was just holding. “ _Now_ you can stay the night,” he walks towards the small table with the electric kettle to brew some tea.

“So _this_ was your plan all along?” Giorno playfully takes a jab at the older man. “You know, you could’ve just asked. I’d have easily obliged.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Rohan shoots the remark down nonchalantly. “I might just take your bait,” he laughs to himself quietly before returning to a more serious tone. “Now tell me are you having some tea or what?”

“No thanks,” the blond answers dryly. He really should fix his disdain towards tea. It’s starting to embarrass him.

“Alright then,” the artist calmly responds. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to warm you up?”

And like a scene from a TV show, he starts to feel the cold dry air of the room hit his exposed skin. He shivers as he looks for a blanket, which—to his dismay—is nowhere to be found. He clicks his tongue. 

This is definitely one of Rohan’s shitty little schemes.

“You don’t have a blanket?” he asks.

“You don’t want to have tea?” the artist raises a brow in return.

“I asked you a question.”

“I asked you first,” Rohan glares at the blond, but fails to keep a straight face. A smug grin creases his lips.

“Fine, I’ll take the tea,” Giorno finally submits.

“Hah, I win,” Rohan’s cheery smile is plastered all over his face as he plays with the teabag in his cup. He turns around to make another cup.

Sometimes, Giorno just couldn’t believe the nerve of this Japanese man; saying, “Hah, I win,” with that pompous look. He squints his eyes at this. The guy even had the gall to plot some petty game. And to top it all of…

He fucking lost.

 _‘Damnit, I can’t believe I lost,’_ he thinks to himself. Yet the sheer cold slapping his skin quickly reminded him of his situation. He tucks his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, trying to conserve as much body heat as he can. With his teeth chattering and body shivering, he wonders when the tea would come. Instead, a warm and soft comforter wraps around him to ease the cold. Giorno pokes his head out to check up on the artist, only to see him walking back to the small table where the cups were steeping.

“You really are a handful, aren’t you?” Rohan comments before returning to the steeping tea.

Giorno doesn’t answer, knowing fully well that there is nothing to gain from responding. Instead, he wraps himself further in the comforter, creating as much noise as he can, like a sulking child trying to get the attention of a person—which in this case, happens to be Rohan.

“You really _are_ a handful,” the artist scoffs. “What do you want me to do this time? Go to you and cuddle with you?”

“...yes.”

Giorno doesn’t hear an answer. He waits for the artist to respond, but instead feels the other side of the bed move. He can feel the comforter open up from his backside and feels a warm embrace from behind him.

“Is this alright with you?” Rohan gently whispers.

The blond lets out a sheepish hum. 

“Don’t you think this is better than the tea?” Rohan teases the boy.

“Don’t push your luck,” Giorno nudges the other away, only for the arms to wrap around him just a little bit tighter.

“I’m going to miss this,” Rohan admits. “But more than this, I’m going to miss you.”

“I know,” Giorno is quick to answer. “I’m going to miss you too. Quite terribly.”

They stay still and in silence for a good few minutes. Rohan doesn’t know what to say. At this point, he’d rather just make the most of the moment they are sharing. Somehow, he realizes how perfectly the blond fits in his arms. How comforting the warmth he is radiating. He starts to take in the feeling of having Giorno with him for the last time—to memorize the shape of the blond, the color of his skin, the many different shades of gold that adorns his head, and that lone star in the sea of freckles on his back. 

His admiration was interrupted upon noticing the blond stirring from time to time. As if the boy couldn’t sit still in his embrace. He looks over to see Giorno fidgeting with his fingers.

“You know by now you should be more honest with your feelings,” he tells the boy. “Is there something I can do to help?” he asks. 

“I’m just tired,” the younger one’s voice can barely be heard.

“I know,” he answers. “It’s alright. Let’s call it a night,” he insists as he lets go of the blond who starts lying down. 

“I’m sorry,” Giorno whispers.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the artist comfortingly cooes. He follows the blond onto the bed, taking his time as he carefully lies next to the boy. “I’m here,” he reassures the other.

“I know,” the younger one manages to say after a brief silence. “It’s just hard to accept that you will no longer be here after tomorrow,” he lets out a heavy sigh.

Rohan takes Giorno in his arms once again. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” he says. “For now, just get some rest.”

“If I do, morning will come in quickly and you’ll be gone.”

Rohan doesn’t say a word. He kisses the star on the boy’s back.

As soon as the artist’s lips parted from the boy’s bare skin, Giorno seemed to relax, melting into Rohan’s embrace. The mangaka could feel Giorno’s breathing from the way his body talked, rising and falling with ease. These are the moments when Rohan finds rest, holding the blond close to him as they both wait for the inevitability of the morning sun. 

If only he didn’t have to let go...

Occasionally, Giorno would break the silence by tensing up and becoming somewhat restless. The artist, who would only be sleeping lightly could notice this, and in response would squeeze the blond to reassure him that it still wasn’t time. He’d bring himself closer to the boy and place his lips on the star-shaped birthmark, treasuring each time he had to do it.

This would go on until the darkest hours just before dawn.

–––––––––-

The morning greets them quietly. Its humble light graces the window and leaks faintly into the room where Giorno and Rohan lay. Giorno reluctantly opens his eyes. The day he dreaded has finally come, and all too quickly. He sighs.

“Did you sleep well?” Rohan asks. “Or were you able to sleep at all?”

“Barely,” the blond answers. He shifts to face the artist.

“Buongiorno,” Rohan greets him with a kiss on the forehead.

“Mm, you say it quite nicely,” he says in between yawning. “Are you making me miss you more?” 

“Maybe?” The artist plants another kiss.

“You’re mean, you know that?” Giorno half-heartedly teases as he pulls himself into Rohan, placing his forehead against the bare chest.

“I’m sorry,” the artist responds before yawning back. The artist wraps his arms around the boy in return. “I was just being mean so you don’t have to miss me as much,” Rohan starts.

“You call _this_ mean?” the blond chuckles almost immediately. “Okay then, Mr. Kishibe Rohan,” he continues. “Be as mean as you want.”

“You know I would,” the artist laughs as he runs his hand along the light wavy locks, combing through it with his fingers.

They stay locked in each other’s embrace, occasionally meeting each other’s eyes and sharing a smile. The artist continues to play with the boy’s hair as he hums a quiet tune to himself.

Giorno starts to wonder if there really was a god in this world. It had never once crossed his mind. God? A supreme being? Religion? They all appear to be useless weight; irrational concepts created by man as an escapist scheme: a calamity happens? God’s plan. A victory in life? God’s plan. Loss of a loved one that drives you to extreme sadness, bordering insanity? God’s fucking plan. 

And right now, as useless and ridiculous as it sounds, he wonders if _this_ is the work of some god. The cathartic feeling of meeting Rohan, who was a stranger back in Paris; the warm and familiar, yet all-too-new feeling that bloomed in his chest as he exposes his most vulnerable sides to him; and the brooding emptiness that lurks in the shadows, waiting to consume him the moment Rohan finally leaves.

He wonders if he could wager a bargain… A compromise? An arrangement? To do what, exactly? Bring back time? Extend time? Erase time? Loop time ad infinitum? He sighs. He just wants _this_ to last…

But there is no god. At least to him. There _is_ no divine plan. No prayers being heard or answered by someone in the sky. No being to negotiate with. All there is—is time. And it’s not going to wait for him… Not him and his selfishness.

“Your heart’s beating fast,” the blond comments. 

“And yours isn’t?” the artist asks with a raised brow, even if the other couldn’t see it.

Giorno lifts his head at this and looks at Rohan. “Find out for yourself,” he says as he lifts his head away from the artist. In turn, Rohan rests his head on the boy’s chest.

“Now I think _you’re_ being the mean one. Won’t it beat fast for me anymore?” the artist asks blankly before chuckling to himself.

Before the blond could even respond, a phone’s alarm shatters the serene intimacy in the room. The artist reluctantly moves away from the boy to check on his phone, and with what looks like much effort, manages to push himself to sit upon the edge of the bed, his back turned against the blond.

Rohan groans. “It’s time to get ready, Giorno. We need to leave soon.”

The faint smile quickly faded from the blond boy’s face. “Can’t we stay just a bit longer?”

The mangaka doesn’t reply immediately. He takes a moment to gather himself, and without turning back to look at the boy, he stands up and says “I’m sorry, Giorno, but we simply don’t have the time.”

Giorno clicks his tongue at this.

The blond watches as the artist heads for the small closet to take out a few clothes, who then neatly lays them out on the couch nearby. He heads out of the blond’s line of sight and returns a minute later with a suitcase which he places on the bed. He carefully folds and places the clothes inside the bag. All the while, Giorno just sat there on the bed, watching him. He finds it odd how Rohan was packing up his belongings, repeatedly arranging and rearranging the items in the luggage; as if he were trying to stall for more time. 

“You should get ready,” Rohan says without even looking at the boy’s direction. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Mm, sure,” the blond answers dryly as he gets off the bed, thinking that maybe a bit of time alone might help.

The first thing he does is splash his face with tap water to wash away the grogginess. In a way it refreshes him; he feels the cool sensation against his cheeks. He slaps himself lightly, trying to shake himself awake from this daunting reality—as if there will ever be a different one that guarantees a better outcome. But with who?

He shakes his head disapprovingly at his own thoughts. How utterly useless and pathetic. With a stroke of luck, he hears a couple knocks on the bathroom door. 

“Hey,” Rohan’s muffled voice echoes from the other side. “Are you okay in there? I need to use the bathroom. Sorry, we need to check out soon.”

“Yeah… I’ll be right out,” the boy responds. He wipes his face off with a towel and gives himself one last look in the mirror. He looked… tired. His skin looks a lot more dull and uneven; eyes red at the corners with dark circles underneath them. He sighs. There’s no room to even worry about how unkempt his hair is. He can address that later. He opens the door and finds Rohan standing in front of him with a pair of dark blue pants… His pants.

“Just handing them out to you,” the artist explains in a hushed tone. “Sorry I can’t lend you any clothes, I—”

“No it’s okay,” Giorno cuts him. “Thank you,” He takes the pants and steps out, vacating the lavatory. 

The door closes behind him with a soft click. And as soon as he hears the shower begin to run, Giorno takes the time to look around at the comfortable suite. Somehow, his gaze leads him to the bed where they spent the night. Their last night together. A suitcase stands beside it, upright and ready for a flight. He then sees the shirt he wore last night, now neatly folded on the bed next to a blue shirt with an orange necktie atop it. Without anything else to do, he suits himself up slowly and almost drearily—taking the time to fasten each button of the shirt as if time will slow down to wait for him. While it would’ve been a whole lot better if the artist had given him a fresh batch of clothes for him to keep, he knows that it would only give him an excuse to hold on. And he is sure that the artist knew this too.

With a sigh, he seats himself on the couch, right next to where his phone had been the entire night. Instinctively, he takes it; only to be greeted with a lone text from Fugo:

> “Did you pull on an all-nighter? Or did you pull OUT an all-nighter? 👀”

Giorno scoffs at this, and begins typing out his reply.

> “Nothing happened. If anything, we’re finally cutting things off.” 

He pauses for a moment. Without thinking much of it, he deletes the reply entirely and shoves the phone into his pocket. Laying down and allowing his back to sink into the couch, he closes his eyes to breathe in deeply and slowly exhaling through his nose. His eyes now transfixed onto the ceiling.

It takes the sounds of the bathroom door opening and closing for Giorno to realize he had been staring blankly at the ceiling for what felt like a good couple of minutes. He brings his attention to the source of the sound and sees Rohan half-dressed. 

“I’m almost done. You ready?” the mangaka asks with the blue shirt in hand.

“I guess,” Giorno replies. He lets his head fall back onto the couch as he continues to blankly stare at the ceiling.

-

It had not occurred to the blond that he dozed off until he felt a few light taps on his leg. His eyes open slowly to find the artist before him. 

“Let’s go?” Rohan manages a smile to which the other nods reluctantly. The mangaka picks up his suitcase and heads for the door. He turns around and waits for the boy to follow. Giorno sluggishly gets up from the couch and drags his feet to follow his companion.

–

Checking out was faster than they had initially expected, and soon enough, they found themselves back in the car, heading back to Giorno’s dorm. 

The ride is particularly quiet and somber, save for the car radio which was playing some mellow music. The two haven’t talked since they left the hotel. 

“Hey,” Giorno finally chirps up. “Do you think… Maybe we could still be friends?”

Rohan doesn’t respond immediately. The music fills the car as he thinks it over.

“As much as I want to, I don’t think we can, Giorno,” Rohan responds. “Attachments can reopen old wounds, don’t you think so?” he turns to the blond who winces at the question.  
He hates to admit it, but the man is right. 

Without waiting for a reply, Rohan continues. “I’d rather pour it all out in my next work. Maybe use what we have… had,” he corrects himself, “as inspiration. In that way, both of our feelings would be immortalized without having the need to act upon them.”

“Now _that’s_ mean,” the blond dryly chuckles, pausing before continuing. “But you’re right. It won’t do us any good,” he says as he looks out the window. 

The scenery starts to look more and more familiar as the drive went on, making Giorno more and more restless. He starts fidgeting—fingers lacing and tangling, his foot tapping uncontrollably, his eyes darting from every signpost that they pass by. 

“You seem restless,” the artist says, eyes still glued to the road. “It’s alright, we’re almost there,” as if it’ll provide any form of reassurance.

Giorno opens his mouth to protest; to tell the man that the cause of his disquiet is the fact that they are quickly inching towards his dorm—and their inevitable separation.

But all his mind shouted was how observant and thoughtful Rohan is, that even until the very end, the artist can still sense when his equilibrium is thrown off-balance.

At last, they finally arrive at the front of the dorm. Rohan parks the car just outside of the gate, and turns to Giorno.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“Yeah.”

The blond slowly unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door.

“Uhm, wait,” Rohan stammers. 

The boy immediately stops and turns his head to face the man. As their eyes meet, Giorno’s chest tightens hopelessly wishing that the artist would take it all back; that he will fly back to Japan only to visit him every now and then, that he will keep in touch, that they can keep what they have and become something more— 

“I love you, Giorno,” he says as he brushes his muse’s blond locks one last time. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I love you too, Rohan. I hope you find what you’re looking for as well,” Giorno takes a beat. “Sayounara.” He steps out of the car and closes it behind him.

“Sayounara, Haruno,” Rohan admits under his breath. Once again, the music fills the car as the artist is left alone.

He watches Giorno walk towards the gate and further away from him. He hopes for the boy to turn back again; to run back to where he was so they could look at each other one more time, just like in the movies.

But this isn’t a movie at all. 

With a heavy sigh and a much heavier heart, he pulls out from the driveway to continue his journey. Only this time, there is a destination, and no one to be with him along the way. 

Meanwhile, Giorno reaches the front of the door. The faint sounds of the gang bickering on the other side are almost enough to comfort him. He manages to smile a little. He admits to himself that it feels good to be home. Yet somehow, the thought of ‘home’ also reminded him of Rohan. So he turns back around to look at the artist one last time, but the car is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE ARE BACK. This chapter was long delayed, but we made it nonetheless!! This is probably the longest chapter my friend and I have ever written (in our lives so far LOL). It was a bit challenging, but later on, it proved to be incredibly enjoyable and satisfying. This pretty much marks the end of GioHan (finally!! LOL) so expect GioMis-centric themes after this chapter.
> 
> So how did you find the entire run of GioHan? What do you think will happen to GioMis after this? 😳
> 
> As always, I'm always on Twitter ([@yo_nanji](http://twitter.com/yo_nanji)) if you wanna shout at me or sth idk 😂


	4. My Happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We’re too naive  
> To fall in love  
> With a single glance  
> Next time we meet  
> Just ignore and pass me by, Baby  
> You just my happening"
> 
> (from _Happening_ by AKMU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for the holidays! Enjoy :)

“You sure you’re not coming with us, Giorno?” Fugo asks… probably for the fifth time already.

“Fugo,” the blond in question sighs. He clearly isn’t in the mood for this—especially when it’s only 7 fucking o’clock in the morning. “How many times are you gonna make me say it? I’ll be fine.”

“Aww, I’ll miss you so much buddy,” Narancia chimes in with a pleading face.

“Narancia, you’ll only be gone for the entire day, c’mon,” Giorno finds himself chuckling at the childish expression. “Besides, I already have my own agenda lined up for the day.”

“I bet kiddo found another Rohan to mess around with,” Abbacchio snarkily comments as he uses his lips to point towards the general direction of Mista’s room, but is met with grim looks from everyone, but Giorno himself—who just sighs.

“Okay guys, just stop. You all know that’s not it,” he responds dismissively. 

Fugo, Narancia, and Abbacchio collectively raise their brows at this before beginning to nudge at the half-awake blond with terrible jokes about him, Rohan, and Mista. Fugo starts with, “Oh c’mon we all know you’re still whipped for the both of them”; while Abbacchio laughs heartily as he says, “Yeah, why not just tell them you want an open relationship? Have a threesome or something!”

And just when the trio are about to spew out some more comments, Bucciarati, who was silently stewing by the kitchen table, finally and sternly interjects. “What if we all just give Giorno the time he needs for himself,” interrupting the other three from their jest. “After all, I’m sure he’d appreciate some alone time,” he pauses to look at them one at a time. “Away from unnecessary noise, yeah?”

Like a command that was obediently followed, the room falls silent for a moment. 

“C’mon, Bruno, we’re just breaking the ice to kickstart the morning,” the eldest is the first to rebut. “You’re being such a killjoy. And it’s only 7 fucking AM!”

Bucciarati proceeds to rub his temples to try and calm himself down. “And the three of you are being assholes,” the second eldest answers back. “And it’s only 7 fucking 01,” clearly growing more impatient. “Shall we get going or not? We don’t have all morning.”

“Alright, alright…” a clearly irritated Abbacchio obliges. “Sheesh can’t even get a break on a fucking weekend,” he comments to himself as he lumbers out of the door. Bucciarati then stares down at the other two in the room.

“Fugo started it,” Narancia immediately points at the blond beside him, trying to toss the blame. 

“What the fuck?” the blond shoves his elbow into his friend’s side. “You’re the one being so clingy, asshole!”

Narancia immediately grabs hold of Fugo’s elbow and pulls him in closer to try to get him into a headlock. “What did you just call me?!”

“JESUS GUYS,” Bucciarati shouts. “If you two don’t get in the car, we’re gonna miss the fucking breakfast window. I _need_ my hash browns,” he says, still glaring at the two.

“Look, now you got him all angry,” Narancia starts inching out the door with Fugo’s head still wedged in his arms. “Now he won’t let me use the aux on the way!”

“It’s your fault, damnit,” Fugo retorts, smacking Narancia’s ribs as he tries to escape. “You’re such a dumb asshole!”

Once the two were out of sight, Bruno tries to regain his composure before looking at Giorno. “Sorry,” he breathes out. “We’ll see you soon, Giorno.” And with a nod from the blond, Bruno heads to the door and leaves. It takes a couple more seconds til the blond hears the sound of Bruno’s car roaring to life before fading away into the distance.

Giorno finally sighs out of relief. Bucciarati is right. He needs this time alone to be by himself. The day has just started; its entirety ready for the taking. And he won’t waste another second of it. He starts the coffee maker before leaning against the countertop. He slowly breathes in then out. The space sure does look entirely different with him being the only one occupying it—it feels almost comforting. He’s been living with the gang for almost a year and a half, yet he only notices now how oddly neat the flat is; given how rowdy all of them could be. Jars and containers properly labeled pasta, rice, bulgur, salt, and other dry herbs and spices; mugs hung on a simple wooden rack with each of the group’s initials taped on the wood; plates lined up by height just next to the clear glasses. He wonders if it has always been Bruno who’s keeping everything in check… After all, the man is always the first one up, followed by Abbacchio. Or maybe it’s the both of them. The sound of the coffee maker snaps him from his thoughts. He takes his mug from the rack and pours himself a cup, making sure to take a whiff of the beverage. He always loved the smell of hot coffee, especially in the morning. Smiling lightly to himself, he takes a sip. The sun’s light leaks through the kitchen window, casting its bright golden tones against Giorno’s back. As he feels the warmth from behind him, he takes another sip before checking the clock. 7:07.

Today will be a good day.

With his mug finally emptied, the blond places it on the kitchen sink. He can and will deal with that later in the afternoon. For now, he turns his heels towards his room. There is an agenda to follow for today, and he is eager to accomplish it. After all, rarely will he ever get a chance like this. He might as well enjoy and take good advantage of it.

As he closes the door behind him, he takes a good look at his room to see what needs to be cleaned. His eyes gravitate towards the most cluttered place in the room: his desk. Books, notebooks, papers, and pens litter the surface—almost burying his laptop—among other things. Giorno begins to rearrange and clean up the mess. He carefully places the books back into the shelves hanging above, and sorts out the pile of papers by subject into their respective folders. Soon enough, he could finally see his laptop greeting him with a medley of tangled wires and cables almost dying to be addressed. He starts with his earphones and struggles with the knots he ironically made while untangling it from his wired mouse. He contemplates on investing in a few wireless accessories. Surely that can help… And the moment he finally frees each wire and cable, he carefully winds each of them up. The blond then collects his writing materials of various ink colors and neatly places them in his pencil case. By the time his desk clears up, he takes his notebooks and opens the drawer cabinet to store them—only to be greeted by more clutter hiding inside.

Giorno clicks his tongue. _‘Right these were a mess too,’_ he thinks to himself as he starts emptying out the contents of the drawer. He finds a mix of old receipts, scribbles and notes from classmates regarding projects, to-do lists, and the like. Among these was a bunch of sticky notes that Mista used to leave on his desk from time to time. The blond’s first instinct is to collect and group them with the other notes that he planned to throw away, but he pauses. He reluctantly pulls out one of the notes to read.

_“Early class today so I had to leave._

_I made you some breakfast for when you wake up._

_Just microwave it._

_I love you.”_

He finds another sticky note.

_“I’ll be studying by the time you read this._

_Please don’t forget to drink water, okay?_

_I got you a coaster just for it! ;)_

_I love you.”_

He takes a second to glance over his desk and spots a pink soapstone coaster with a gold ladybug design sitting beside his laptop. Right… Mista gave him that because he always complained about how his papers would accidentally get wet when he’d bring any kind of beverage to his room. He’d replace it if he could, but… He’ll just have to think about that some other time.

He rummages the drawer to find even more sticky notes.

_“If you’re reading this,_

_I._

_FREAK’N._

_LOVE._

_YOU!!!!!”_

And another,

_“Stay in my room tonight? ;)”_

A faint smile starts to crack across his lips. Giorno doesn’t want to admit it, but even though he didn’t give these notes a second thought before, he always looked forward to seeing one waiting for him on his desk.

He reads through the other sticky notes, reminiscing about when these little love letters came; when he was having a bad day, when he finished an important school project, even when there was nothing particular going on, he received these sticky notes.

And they never fail to comfort him. Even up to now.

He takes all of the notes in his hand, carefully running a finger on each of the letters. He’d keep these. Surely he’d love to. He’d hold on to these for as long as he can, but… Love doesn’t always come with a happy ending, especially with a love that happened at a single glance. Mista’s moved on, and he should too. They were just each other’s happening. And he should openly accept it.

With a heavy sigh, he turns and starts to walk towards the trash bin in his room. He didn’t have it in him to even crumple these notes.

Before he could reach the bin, he hears the sound of a door open and shut from outside his room. Footsteps thud the hall of the dorm as they slowly creep up to the front of Giorno’s room. A quiet knock raps his door before slowly opening. Mista peeks inside the room. 

“Hey, uh… do you—” the man notices Giorno on his way to the trash while holding a bundle of sticky notes. “Ah… You’re decluttering.”

“Uhm… Yeah.”

Eyeing the amount of notes Giorno was carrying, Mista smiles wryly. “Guess I sent a fuck ton of those, huh? Sorry if they annoyed you.”

The blond, flustered, immediately protests. “What—no. They didn’t annoy me—wait.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “What are you doing here anyway? The gang’s out enjoying the weekend.”

“Yeah uh... I wanted to talk to you but uh…,” Mista’s voice starts to trail off. “But guess you’re busy,” he says to himself, barely audible but just loud enough for the blond to hear. He starts to close the door.

“Wait,” Giorno reaches for the door, dropping all of the notes onto the floor. He grabs the handle and fully pulls it open. “It’s okay. I’m not really busy,” he says. “Just a couple things to tidy up, but isn’t too much…,” his mind races to find the right words. “Wanna come in?”

Mista half-heartedly smiles at the remark, but doesn’t enter immediately. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor. The blond, becoming a mix of stunned and confused, calls out to the man. “Mista—” but is stopped when he sees him picking up the notes he dropped. And when his ex finishes gathering the papers, he hands them back to the blond.

“Here. You were going to throw these… right?”

Giorno looks at Mista, then at the notes. His mind was telling him to go through with it; to get rid of them once and for all. But a faint feeling inside him started to stir. Something inside him was yelling to hold on. No matter how weak it was, it was enough for Giorno. He takes them from the man.

“You know what? I think these can stay,” he looks into the dark eyes he has always loved staring into. He heads back to the desk and gently places them in the drawer before taking a seat on his bed.

“So… What did you wanna talk about?” he asks, crossing his legs. “I didn’t know you were around… I didn’t brew an extra cup of coffee.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Mista answers. “The coffee doesn’t matter. Compared to this, at least,” he scratches the back of his head, trying to let out a laugh in order to hide his cheeks that were faintly starting to blush. “Can I sit down?”

“Sure make yourself comfortable,” Giorno scooches over to the far side of the bed. Mista sits on the other end. “So, what is it?”

Mista pauses to ponder on the question—his leg shaking, his hands, fidgeting, and his eyes darting around the room. The two lock eyes, both faces desperately trying to egg each other on to start the conversation. “Yeah, this is awkward…” He immediately shifts his gaze back to the floor.

“Yeah, it is,” Giorno simply answers, eyes still glued onto Mista.

And the silence haunts them once more.

Mista’s eyes start to wander around again. It has certainly been a while but not much of the blond’s room has changed ever since he stopped frequenting it a little over half a year ago. For some reason, it brings him a bit of comfort. The stiffness in his body seemed to relax upon this realization.

Warm, off-white walls accented with a peach hue; pleasing and calming, much like the person who occupies it. He then looks at Giorno’s light blue bed sheets. These were his favorite; especially since these were the sheets that greeted him when he first snuck into the blond’s room to spend the night with him. He looks back at that time—the late-night conversations, awful jokes, mundane topics, and countless intimate moments he shared with him. There were a lot of unforgettable and equally funny memories in this space. He takes in the entirety of the blond’s room. Even the scent of it is enough to make him feel like he never left. As he looks behind Giorno, his eyes are immediately drawn to the coaster—the one he’d given the blond—neatly placed next to the laptop. Mista’s chest wells up with a kind of happiness that he can’t even describe. This was enough for him to find it in himself to start the conversation. 

“You’re still using that thing, huh?” he says while eyeing the coaster.

The blond follows Mista’s gaze and spots the golden ladybug next to his laptop. “Oh. Uhm, yeah,” he responds. “It was really thoughtful of you. So, thanks.”

“I’m surprised you kept it,” he murmurs.

“It was a nice gift,” the blond smiles. “Besides, it came from you.”

Mista’s gaze snaps towards Giorno. Upon seeing the warm smile, he immediately reciprocates it with his own. He uneasily shifts closer to the blond.

“You know…” Mista pauses. He tries to maintain eye contact with him, but can’t seem to do so. Instead, his gaze shifts back to the floor as he continues. “I, uh… Y’see, I…,” he clenches his fists out of frustration. “God, this is—Giorno, I—”

And when he finally gets the guts to look back at the far side of the bed, he finds himself staring face-to-face with the blond, who slowly inched his way closer while Mista was preoccupied. 

“Gio—”

Mista was immediately cut off as the blond leans in close to wrap him in a tender embrace. 

And before he could say another word, Giorno softly whispers. “It’s okay. I already know,” as he tightens his hug around the man.

“No fair,” Mista whines. “You couldn’t even let me finish,” yet despite his protest, he brings his arms around the other to return the embrace.

“You couldn’t speak out anyway,” a smile finds its way on Giorno’s face. “I’ve missed you too. So much. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Mista starts to tremble slightly. “I was stupid. I was jealous. I didn’t think things through. Even now I’m all over the place,” he chokes up a bit, but manages to continue. “I thought you already forgot about me, and—and that’s why I was so desperate to forget about you too,” he manages to blurt out. “Prosciutto never meant anything to me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Dumbass,” Giorno tries to force out a laugh, but his voice only ends up cracking. 

He finally wills himself to continue. “I know, I am—” The two stay in each other’s arms for a moment longer.

“We…,” the blond is the first to part from the other’s arms. “We both made mistakes,” he says almost inaudibly as he picks on his lips with his hand. “You had Prosciutto, I… had Rohan,” he adds. “I… Really thought I—”

As he takes another pinch to peel a bit more skin off his lips, Mista takes it by the wrist and holds it. He’d complain about how sweaty the other’s hand is, but it’s not like he hadn’t longed for this moment for almost a year.

“Even Rohan told me it was still you…,” the blond admits with a sigh. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realize and accept it.”

“Heh, took you long enough,” Mista sniffs. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand to avoid showing that they were tearing up. “I gave up trying to forget about you.” His eyes suddenly break away from the boy before he could continue. 

“You know, those first six months were really terrible. I could barely keep it together in front of the guys,” he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “And when I saw how much fun you had in Paris, I thought—” his hands start to uncharacteristically tap on his thighs. 

“I thought it was really over,” he confesses; his voice almost a croak.

He pauses to look up the ceiling and breathes out. There is no way he will cry in front of Giorno—not for now, at least. He will not let his emotions take over him; these feelings of longing, optimism, and love. Overflowing love. And when he stops feeling the tears from pooling up, he gazes back at the blond 

“No matter where I was, or who I was with, it was always you, Giorno. It’s like the world never wanted me to let you go,” he bites his tongue to stop himself from quivering.

“Well...You weren’t allowed to in the first place,” Giorno then takes hold of Mista’s (sweaty lol) hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it tenderly. “Because the world wanted me to hold on too.”

“Always so good with words,” Mista lovingly looks at Giorno, as he brings his hand and gently runs it across the blond’s cheeks.

“And you always have been the better person,” he answers back. “I’m sorry.”

“We were dumb,” the brunette replies as he carefully tucks a lock of loose curls behind the blond’s ear. “I missed this,” he whispers. “But maybe I should get you some hair clips?” he grins widely.

“Maybe don’t so you can keep doing that?” 

Mista chuckles. “I love you. I always have, I always will,” he says. His eyes now meeting the blond’s soft green ones.

“I love you too, Mista,” Giorno replies without missing a beat, each word filled with as much sincerity as he could put in them. It was an immediate response, but it felt so natural and clear, as if Giorno couldn’t lie even if he wanted to.

The other man couldn’t contain himself as a smile appears on his lips. He starts to fidget and play with his fingers. “So…,” Mista mulls over the words. Choosing the right ones as if he were navigating a minefield. “Does this mean we’re back together?” he finally lets out. 

Giorno tenses up the moment he hears the words, filling him with a sudden need to once again put up walls to protect himself; as if it were second nature. His eyes widen—face changing almost completely—enough for Mista to notice.

“Shit, sorry,” the other immediately retracts. “W-we don’t have to…”

The blond shakes his head lightly at this and brings a finger back to his lips to pick on it. He remains silent for a short while, looking for a way to ground himself back to reality and away from the thoughts racing in his head. It happened once, it happened twice; he sure wouldn’t want a third instance of the same amount of hurt and heartache. But when he looks at Mista, whose eyes seemed to long for him despite looking the other way—warm, dark, and absolutely comforting…

There is no other way to put it: the man before him—albeit being someone who is way too loud, and exuberant, yet is now all silent and unable to look at him directly—is the only one who could ever make him feel home.

“No,” he finally musters the will to answer. “It’s just that…” Giorno pauses, trying to find the words that wouldn’t hit as much as they should.

“We’re both… Not in the right place yet?”

“Yeah…,” the blond confirms as he looks away. He places his hand back on his lap to fiddle with his fingers.

“Oh, yeah. True,” was all the other man could say before becoming silent. It’s not like he can contradict what he just said, even if he is so desperate to take it back. Maybe he _is_ in the right place already. After all, he has always yearned for Giorno. No, he has always loved Giorno. Despite the failed attempts in forgetting about him, he always finds himself back to the blond in one way or another. And now that he’s finally here with the opportunity to face him… “God I just want to set things right and start over…” he unintentionally blurts out loud. Upon realizing this, he covers his face with both hands, hoping that the other won’t look at him. Still, he doesn’t miss out on the chance to hiss out “fuck”.

“You know… I want to start over too, but,” he tries to look at Mista, waiting for him to look back. Yet the other doesn’t reciprocate. “Everything just happened too fast.”

Mista bites his lip, knowing fully well how hastily they jumped into what they had. He keeps silent, as if that could confute that fact; hands together with his fingers intertwined as he stares down the wooden floorboards.

“The look on your face says it’s true,” Giorno speaks again. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

The other sighs deeply. Sometimes, it was annoying how the blond could see right through him. But he knows Giorno is right. He fiddles around with his hands, mulling over the past and with what he just heard.

“You know, I sometimes hate it when you’re always right,” he admits. “But yeah. Everything went by in a flash. It was just… So easy. It felt so… _right_. You and me.”

“Easy comes, easy goes,” Giorno wistfully replies. “That’s when you know it was never easy.”

“It really fucking wasn’t,” Mista agrees. 

Giorno takes a moment. “But one thing’s for sure: it _did_ feel right,” he glances at the man next to him. “Sometimes you’re right as well, you know. You just don’t want to acknowledge it.”

The brunette slowly grins at him, to which the blond smiles back.

The two stay silent. Only this time, it was a silence that was much more bearable. Trying to hide the smiles slowly creeping up their faces, their hearts are filled with warmth and hope; carrying the promise of a better day, a better tomorrow.

“So,” Mista breaks the silence, making sure that their eyes lock once again. Even if it was only for a fleeting moment, he finally sees a reflection of himself in Giorno’s green eyes, as clear and as bright as day. “What do we do now?”

Giorno looks away to smile sheepishly, making a terrible attempt in hiding the emotions that were starting to well up within him. He bites his lips, but lets loose in the end. He brings himself back to meet Mista in the eyes—the very eyes he first loved, and the very eyes he will continue to love… _‘All in due time,’_ he thinks to himself. With a cocky grin on his face, he proposes. “Help me declutter my room?”

The brunette seems to fully relax as soon as he hears those words. He manages to let out a short but heartfelt laugh as he lets himself fall into the bed. “Just like the good ol’ days, huh?” he asks, stretching himself out onto the mattress. He props himself on both elbows to sit back up and look at the blond.

Giorno chuckles. Mista has always been so candid and colorful with how he expresses his feelings, and he couldn’t be luckier to witness it once again. He leaves the bed for his desk, and uncaps a pen. This catches the attention of the brunette, who squints as he tries to make out what the other is doing. Within seconds, the blond turns back around, brings a knee on his bed, and reaches out towards Mista to playfully slap a sticky note on his forehead. 

Stunned, Mista playfully huffs as he takes the note off his forehead. 

_‘[ ] throw old receipts and scratch papers_

_[ ] make the bed_

_[ ] sweep the floor’_

The warmth that was spreading throughout Giorno’s body has finally reached his face, tinting it with dainty shades of pink. He smiles genuinely at the other. “Yeah,” he answers. “Just like the good ol’ days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much-awaited GioMis content!!! I honestly don't know what else today (lol). I'm just glad to finally write some ACTUAL GioMis 😂
> 
> My friend and I intended to post this during the holiday season so I hope this chapter warmed your hearts. To those who are still reading through this series, thank you so so much!!! This fic series is my first JoJo fic (and my very first multi-chapter fic), so this entire story is very dear to me. We started around mid-July and now we're reaching the end of the year. And whether you like it or not, we will bring this series to the next year 😂 
> 
> Enjoy the holidays!! 🎄❄️ We'll see you in 2021 🙏🏻


	5. Too Late to Turn Back Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's too late to turn back now  
> I believe, I believe, I believe I'm falling in love"
> 
> (from _[Too late to Turn Back Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfYkhQblYjY)_[](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfYkhQblYjY)by Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's from me and my co-author! We hope you enjoy this little gift 💝
> 
> We have a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1jWm9A2Pc2f84CNyEuka62?si=189c47e93e954d9c) containing all the songs we used as titles for every part and chapter!

If there’s one thing they enjoy most about university life, it’s the awfully little extra time they have in order to do whatever the hell they want. And on Friday nights, it’s heading out to a local bar just a few blocks from their dorm. 

“Damn, where is he?” Mista scratches his head as he restlessly taps his foot against the tiled flooring. “It’s been thirty fucking minutes.”

“Just wait it out, Mista,” Abbacchio answers nonchalantly. He leans back against his seat. “The guy’s out being the welcoming committee.”

“WAIT IT OUT?” He raises his voice as his eyes widen; seemingly ready to pop out of their sockets at what he just heard from the man. “DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW MANY WE ARE AT THIS DAMN TABLE RIGHT NOW?”

Abbacchio snorts. “Here we go again…” he fishes out his earphones from his pocket and puts them on. Without even finding the need to connect them to his phone.

“Fuck you, Abbacchio, we’re in a fucking bar!” 

“And fuck you and your tetraphobic ass,” the eldest grunts and stands up. “Only thirty minutes in, and you’re gonna make me smoke my lungs dead. Jeez.” He then leaves for the door.

“Yikes,” Narancia only comments. 

“Fuck off,” Mista barks at the unsolicited remark, with Fugo echoing him. The three of them each take a drink from their glasses of water. It isn’t really a party without Bucciarati completing the team, especially when the man had announced earlier that the gang is “in for a treat tonight”. And to be frank, all the excitement of anticipating that “treat” is dwindling down by each passing minute. Plus, they’re _really_ getting tired of drinking water. The night is ticking away, the music is loud and inviting, and the stress of university is simply aching to be drowned in laughter and cheap alcohol. 

“Seriously though, what’s taking him so long?” Narancia asks. And a valid question it was. Bucciarati is never one to be late for anything, especially during this particular Friday night-out with the gang. This makes Fugo glance at his wristwatch with a sigh. 

“Abbacchio mentioned Bucciarati being in some sort of a welcoming committee,” Mista answers, obviously bored as he brings out his phone to scroll through social media. “Don’t know what that means, but fuck, I didn’t know he was the type to play all goody-two-shoes with the student council.”

“I mean, it’s probably important to him,” Fugo adds before leaning over to Mista’s side to whisper, “hey, you checking out the shit about Signore Polpo circulating over Twitter?”

“Yeah, important to kiss ass—” the man in the beanie retorts as he scrolls through his phone before cutting his sentence short. “Yeah dude, holy FUCK!” he shouts, face contorting out of pure horror and disgust. He locks his phone immediately and nearly slams it on the table face-down. “The fuck’s he doing with that banana? Shit, it’s like he’s deep-throating it like some cock!”

Narancia and Fugo burst into laughter at the man’s reaction. Ah, university life really is something else—a crazy mix of head-crushing stress, bizarre tales, fuck tons of laughter, and a whole lot of unforgettable memories. And Polpo’s leaked video of him deep-throating a banana is certainly one for the fucking books.

As the laughter slowly fades away, Mista sighs and is the first to speak. “I really need a fucking drink after seeing that,” he takes his glass of water and finishes it in one go. “Seriously, Bucciarati oughta make up for this. He’s really starting to ruin this night,” he begins to rant away. 

“Oh c’mon, Mista,” Fugo interjects. “It’s not like he’s always like this. This is probably the very first time he’s been late. I’m sure the guy will do something to make up for it,” he reasons out. And the two know that the blond in green is right. 

“He’s got a point, ya know,” Narancia chirps. He joins Mista in taking his phone out to scroll through socials, keeping his eyes on the screen. “We can all just get him to pay the tabs tonight or something. And that’s different from that treat he was saying,” he adds before his eyes also grow wide at the screen and locks it immediately.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the man in the beanie brushes the words off. He just hates it when Fugo reasons out with him—coz the guy really makes a damn good point. He rolls his eyes at the thought. Fuck Fugo and his smartass debating bullshit. He’s bored, he’s irritated by Bucciarati’s lateness, and he just really wants to fucking drink the night away. What does a guy have to do to get some alcohol? Hell, why do they even have to wait for Bucciarati to come over? Can’t they just get started already?

“Ahhhh, fuck it!” Mista exclaims, his frustration steadily building up inside him. “Jeez, I wanna get buzzed already, guys. Why can’t we just get started?” he raises the question to the other two, whose eyes are now focused on him. “Seriously, why is _that_ guy making us wait like this? He oughta make damn sure it’s hell worth it,” he crosses his arms, leans back on his seat, and raises his head up to pout. 

Narancia and Fugo turn their faces to each other and exchange looks. The man’s practically lost it.

Abbacchio finally returns to their table smelling like an entire pack of cigarettes, holding two bottles of beer in one hand. “They’re coming,” he simply says as he sits down to pop one of the bottles open for himself.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Fugo raises a brow before quickly snatching the other bottle from the man—to which Abbacchio doesn’t even complain at, and that’s equally confusing as it is amusing.

“It better be some hot chick as a peace offering for _me,_ ” Mista comments, which earns disapproving looks from the rest of the table.

“Whaat? It was a joke, you guys! Jeez, the fuck’s wrong with all of you?” he throws his head back and places a hand over his eyes.

The eldest rolls his eyes at the statement. He clearly isn’t in the mood for any of Mista’s bullshitting. “You’ll see,” he then answers Fugo as he downs half the bottle in one go.

And just like a variety show with impeccable timing, Bruno shows up on cue.

Which isn’t really supposed to be a big deal for the rest of the group, well, all except for Mista. Hell, it’s pretty much a given to make the man answer a round of drinks and food for being late—

But right now, it _was_ a big deal.

Because _someone_ is walking right beside him. _With_ him.

“I know I’m late,” Bucciarati raises his hand before anyone could utter a word—and the gang really _can’t_ utter a word or a sound—and continues, “This is Giorno Giovanna. He’s going to occupy the last vacant room back home. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take him here shortly after settling at the dorm.” He then takes his seat beside Abbacchio before gesturing the blond to sit at his side.

“Good evening,” the blond greets formally, it’s almost as stiff as his posture. “I hope we all get along.”

“Wow,” Mista unwittingly comments aloud at the sight of the blond.

“‘Wow’ what, exactly?” Bruno probes curiously.

Mista bites his tongue. His eyes shift from Bruno, the new guy, to Abbacchio, until his eyes get a full trip around their table. “Uh…”

Bruno raises his eyebrows at the man in the beanie. Clearly, his patience had already expired on the trip here; best not to keep him waiting. 

“Wow… Thank god you’re finally here! We can start drinking,” Mista nervously chuckles.

Mista’s nervous laugh was met with a momentary pause at the table. The other members at the table exchange glances with one another. One by one, smirks start to appear as their eyes fall on Mista and the new guy. 

Abbacchio is the first to speak up, a smug grin clearly plastered on his face.

“Really now?” he leans in closer. “You sure it’s not ‘coz of blondie over the—oof!”

Before the tall man could even finish his sentence, Mista sneaks in a quick jab with his elbow into Abbacchio’s stomach.

“Come on man,” Mista forces out more nervous laughter. Damn, he is _not_ in a good spot right now. “You know I’ve been waiting to drink all night!”

“We know, we know,” the eldest joshes on as his smirk re-emerges. He eyes Bucciarati, signaling him to say something. As their eyes met, a small nod was all Bruno needed to understand what was going on in front of him. 

The man in the bob cut raises his voice for the whole table to hear and grins as he says, “I’m quite sure your eyes were on Giorno when you said ‘wo—” 

“HEEEY HEY HEY!” Mista frantically waves his arms around like a panic-driven maniac. C’mon you two, let’s go dance!” He then grabs Abbacchio and Bucciarati on each hand.

“Whoa I thought you said you wanted to drink,” Abbacchio protests before getting tugged into the sea of people getting down at the dance floor. 

And as the two men are dragged along by Mista, he sighs in relief. He looks back at the table to make sure they were out of earshot before giving the two an earful. “Fuck you two. Seriously! You’re making me have a terrible first impression. What if the new guy thinks I’m some sort of perverted weirdo???????? Huh???? And that’s gonna create a rift in the whole squad and it’s gonna be, what, MY fault??? Because Yorno or some shit sees me as some hifalutin bastard with dicks for brains!”

“It’s Giorno, Mista,” Bucciarati immediately corrects him.

“Then Giorno! Or some shit,” the man in the beanie answers back.

“Why, is blondie your type?” the eldest teases, clearly enjoying how flustered and agitated Mista becomes whenever the new guy is mentioned.

“I’m as straight as a fucking ruler, you dick!” Mista refutes in a defensive tone. “Just—Ugh! Stop it, jeez man.” He pulls an attempt in collecting himself, tugging on his beanie as tightly as he could—as if it’ll help.

“Yeah, like that bendy ruler that you have back home?” it was now Bucciarati’s turn to have a smug grin plastered on his face.

“Again, fuck you two,” Mista pouts. “I’m so frik’n glad I dragged your asses off the damn table!”

~ ~

“I’m telling you man, she’s annoying the shit out of me,” Narancia downs another beer as he rambles on to Fugo who barely seems to care. “We let this new girl join our lab group cause we were one short,” he signals the bartender for another bottle before turning back to Fugo. “And all she does is boss me around!”

“Oh sure, you’re telling me that now,” Fugo retorts unenthusiastically. “I’ll give it two months. Then we’ll be back here, and you’ll be drunk out of your ass, proclaiming your undying love for her or something.”

“What?! No FUCKING way!” Narancia explodes.

Fugo doesn’t flinch as he takes a sip of his cocktail. “You wanna bet?” 

“Deal! If that doesn’t happen, you owe the whole group a bucket of beer, and a basket of wings!” Narancia smirks. He extends his hand out to the man.

“Sure,” Fugo takes Narancia’s hand. He grips it tight and drags Narancia closer. “But if you lose, you’re gonna take her out and introduce her to all of us on the very first date,” his eyes locked onto his friend’s. “Deal?”

Narancia, who was briefly taken aback, quickly regains his composure. “Fine, deal. Like it’ll ever happen anyway.”

“Who is this chick anyway?” Fugo asks as he returns his attention to his drink.

“Some girl called Trish Una,” Narancia mumbles as he takes the bottle of beer that’s just arrived at the table. “She’s a fresh transfer or something. Never seen her in school before.” He cracks open the bottle and takes a large swig. “Her hair is this stupid bubblegum pink color. God just remembering it makes me want to barf. My god!! And she dresses up like she’s some sort of Instagram influencer who’s ready to shout out” he puffs up his chest and tries to say it in the most annoying and high-pitched way possible: “just use hashtag TrishAt50Off!” he gulps down another mouthful of beer. “And, and, and—”

“You know you’re gonna lose our bet if you keep talking like that, right?” Fugo chimes in, a small grin starting to appear across his face.

“What?” Narancia’s eyes start to wander around nervously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about man.” His eyes finally fall to the other blond sitting at the other end of the table.

Giorno doesn’t seem too enthusiastic. He is just sitting there, occasionally sipping his cocktail, sometimes tapping his feet, and habitually checking his phone; all the while Bruno, Abbacchio, and Mista were busy enjoying themselves at the dance floor. This new guy, apparently, isn’t a social butterfly.

Narancia motions to Fugo, signaling him to look at Giorno. Fugo looks back at Narancia and asks, stealing glances over the man across him to make sure his next words wouldn't be heard. “So what do you wanna do?”

Narancia winks at him. “Just follow my lead.”

The two get up and casually make their way to the lone blond. They sit next to him; one on each side.

“Heeeeeey, GioGio right?” Narancia asks.

“Uhh, I’d rather you call me Giorno,” the man in question responds.

“I’m Narancia, that’s Fugo,” he points to the other blond with him. “We’re part of the dorm too!”

“I think that’s already a given,” the new guy comments. “But it’s nice to meet you, Narancia and Fugo.” He greets again as he finishes his cocktail. Again, as stiff as a board. Damn, this guy really won’t make this easy for them, huh? Narancia knits his brows together. How the fuck is he supposed to follow up on that? It’s like the guy has some sort of list filled with templated answers memorized for these kinds of encounters. He looks to Fugo for help.

“Okay, so Giorno it is,” Fugo eases in as he pops open a bottle of beer and slides it across the table towards Giorno. “What year are you in?”

“I’m in sophomore year,” the blond answers as he raises a brow at the freshly opened bottle in front of him. “Uhm… uhh Fugo, was it?”

“Yeah!” the other blond reacts positively to his name, his face beaming up with a smile. The new guy is actively engaging in the conversation. There isn’t much enthusiasm in his voice, but it’s definitely a good start. “We’re actually in the same year,” he points out. “We’d probably share a couple of classes, so if you need any help, I’m your guy!”

A small crease forms at the corner of Giorno’s lips. There was something oddly comforting with what Fugo just said. Almost everyone expected him to easily adjust and catch up with a new life at a new university after knowing that he’s the son of Dio Brando, a famous lawyer. It was always ‘you can do this’, and ‘you’ll have no problems with that’—

Narancia lightly kicks Fugo’s shin from under the table, and they grow wide-eyed at the sight of the new guy… Smiling? Fuck YES! The two can feel victory within reach. Now, if they could just land the winning blow and bring home that sweet and crispy bacon.

“Hey! Did you see that video of Signore Polpo sucking that banana like a dick?” Narancia blurts out.

“What?” Giorno shifts his attention to Narancia, this time it was his eyes that start to grow wide. And awfully petrified. 

“What?” Narancia asks back. Well fuck, talk about going too far. Fugo brings a hand to his face, almost slapping himself out of shock and discontent. Guess that’s it. That winning blow has now turned its balled-up fist to punch them back in the face; all thanks to Narancia.

“That professor’s my dad’s friend,” Giorno seemed to breathe out the words out of shock. “He’s like an uncle to me.”

“W-What?” Narancia could only say back. 

Now it was Fugo’s turn to kick Narancia’s shin. Only this time, it was much more forceful; enough to make the boy flinch and scream out a loud “ouch!” as he bumps the table, toppling over the empty bottles and glasses. What’s worse is that it also spilled the beer which Fugo offered to Giorno earlier. Luckily for Giorno—or possibly everyone—it doesn’t reach the edge of the table.

But that doesn’t stop the new guy from clicking his tongue before shooting them a look of… disgust? Annoyance? Disdain? 

“Oh fuck,” Narancia quickly wipes the beer off the table with a tissue. “Lemme get you a new drink. This one’s on me,” he awkwardly laughs it off.

“Wait, what about that thing with Signore Polpo—” Giorno tries to fish before getting cut off.

“I got just the thing!” Narancia nervously chuckles, desperately trying to avoid the topic from _ever_ being unearthed by this guy who claims that Signore “Blowjob” Polpo is his damn uncle of sorts. He calls out to the bartender again. “Hey Lessi! Gimme a love potion!” 

“Love potion?” Giorno asks curiously.

Narancia winks at him. “Actually make it two!” he calls out.

“You see, Lessi and I go waaaaay way back,” he casually gestures towards the bartender. “He made this cocktail for me the first time I got here. He called it the _Love Potion_.”

Giorno scoffs. This so-called “Love Potion” is obviously something that this goofy-looking guy made up to divert his attention from the whole Polpo “scandal” that was said to be circulating all over social media. Still, the idea of this “Love Potion” has quite a very interesting ring to it. He then flashes a mischievous smile over at Narancia. Polpo’s scandalous video can wait. For now, he’ll see how far he can play this game with this ‘Narancia’ guy, and how he can win it. 

And so he hums to show his interest. “And what exactly does it do?”

“Well,” Narancia grins widely. “You’re supposed to drink it, right? And lemme tell you, this drink is no joke! Once you feel like the drink’s about to kick you, you head straight to the dance floor!”

“Okayyy,” Giorno plays along.

“Then you close your eyes, and then you start dancing!” Narancia exclaims. “Feel the music flowing through your body! Do whatever you wanna do man!” he leans in closer. “And when you feel like the timing is just about right, you open your eyes, and then BAM!” he jumps up in excitement. “The first person you see is supposed to be the love of your life!”

Giorno is briefly taken aback by Narancia’s sudden burst of energy. “What? No way,” he laughs it off, obviously unconvinced. “You think out of all the people in the world, the love of your life will be right here at this very bar?”

“Who knows,” Narancia shrugs. “But it’s definitely worth a try. What have you got to lose? If the shit’s real, then it’s real, right?” he smiles slyly.

“Yeah, I’d lose my dignity, thanks for asking,” the braided blond says sarcastically.

A man approaches their table with a small tray holding two red luminescent drinks. He places the drinks in front of Giorno and Narancia.

“Thanks, Lessi,” Narancia winks. “Just put it on Bucciarati’s tab.”

The blond’s green eyes gravitate towards the drink in front of him. He stares at the elegant gold-rimmed cocktail glass that seemed almost iridescent, it makes the drink have a bright and captivating red glow. Adding to its appeal is an equally strong and sweet syrupy fragrance with hints of strawberries and roses.

“Damn, Narancia,” he says without taking his eyes off the potion. “I’ll admit, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention.”

Narancia glances back at Fugo and gives him a small thumbs up. “Crisis averted!” he mouths before returning his attention to the other blond. 

“Pretty, right?” Narancia laughs. “Go on, try it!” He beams.

The blond hesitates. “Uh, I don’t know,” he starts, but is immediately cut off by the boy. 

“Come on, man! That’s why I ordered two! I’ll drink it with you!” Narancia takes both glasses and hands one to the new guy. “Ready?”

And before Giorno could retaliate, the scruffy haired boy downs his drink and nudges the blond to do the same. Without anything but his dignity to lose, he takes up his glass.

The flavor of strawberries immediately fills his mouth as soon as the first sip. It was sweet, but not too sweet, just the right amount of tartness, and surprisingly, he didn’t seem to taste any floral notes or alcohol.

“Wow, this is good,” is all the blond could say before sipping some more until he finishes his glass. “Have you ever had any of this, Fugo?” he asks the other blond.

“Nope,” the other replies a little too quickly. “But I’ve seen my fair share of Love Potion incidents at this bar.” 

Giorno turns back to Narancia. “Now what?”

“Now, we wait,” the boy responds with wonder lacing around each word. He’d be damned not to let the new guy feel the magic.

“What do you mean?” Giorno asks. He sniffs his now empty glass. “I didn’t taste nor smell any traces of alcohol in that drink.”

“And that’s how the Love Potion gets ya,” Narancia winks and shoots him a finger gun. “Trust me, one is enough, you don’t wanna be puking in the stalls or go out cold just when the party’s about to get good.”

“Speaking out of experience?” Giorno probes.

“Out of experience, buddy,” the boy answers. “So believe me when I say that one is really good enough.”

“So what’s your major, new guy?” Fugo suddenly interjects. “We know so little about you, and you’re gonna be staying at our dorm from here on out.”

Giorno slightly turns his head to face the other blond. “I’m a law major,” he simply replies.

“Oh,” Fugo slowly nods. “Gonna follow daddy’s footsteps huh? No shame in that, I’m a business major myself. Someone’s gotta take over the family business, so I get you.”

“I see,” Giorno says.

“Narancia here’s a comms major,” the blond gestures to the boy beside him.

“Really now?” Giorno raises his brow. “What made you choose communications as a major?”

“Well….” Narancia sheepishly chuckles as he ruffles the back of his head. “Have you heard of Apex League?”

Giorno nods. “Yeah what about it? You wanna be part of their marketing team or—”

“I’M GONNA BE THE GREATEST STREAMER IN THE DAMN REGION!!!” Narancia indignantly exclaims. “You heard how much the top streamers earn right? I could be swimming in pools of cash for literally playing games! That… That’s the life!”

Giorno covers his mouth to try and stifle his laugh. Yet a tiny chuckle escapes, just loud enough for the wannabe streamer to hear. This guy is really something. Taking up a major just to stream? Can’t anyone do that nowadays? In any case, the blond finds it incredibly amusing.

“What? You don’t think I’m good at Apex League?” Narancia’s smile morphs into a frown. “Wanna go bro? 1v1 me?”

Suddenly, Narancia’s words were drowned out as a strong bass drum pounded on Giorno’s chest. His head starts getting light and as he looks around, everything seems as if it were in slow motion. He looks at Fugo, and then to Narancia who is waving his hands at him. The boy’s hands seemed to leave a trail like a visual echo each time it moved.

“What?” Giorno says. Even his voice seemed muffled to him. Fuck, Narancia _was_ right. The drink is pretty strong. He realizes, but soon dismisses it as he feels the drink kick into his system. And damn, does it feel good! 

The blond could barely make out what the boy was trying to say to him. “Huh?” he says again. He repeats himself a couple more times until he finally hears Narancia’s muffled voice say, “Let’s dance!”

He feels the boy’s hand grab his wrist as he is led to the dancefloor, leaving Fugo behind to watch them from the table. Everything was a blur as they made their way to the neon-lit dance floor. The strobe lights made everyone look as if they were dancing in stop motion. The music; despite sounding muffled, was attacking Giorno from all sides.

As soon as they reach the middle of the area, Narancia lets go. 

“Wait, Narancia!” the blond calls out; as if his voice would cut through the blaring and booming music.

A hand reassuringly grips Giorno’s shoulder. And Narancia’s voice could barely be heard.

“Don’t worry about me! Just close your eyes and lose yourself to the music!”

The hand gives the blond’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

Damn it. The guy ditches him and now he feels like an awkward mess among the crowd dancing to the music. The blond isn't really keen on dancing. Hell, he’d be damned if he had to do so. In spite of his inebriated state, he knew well that he’s within the bounds of reason. He knew damn well of Narancia’s game, and he will not lose by simply doing what the guy said. Still, games are meant to be played fairly so he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t dance, that’s for sure. He would simply sway from side to side just to convince himself that he is riding along with the crowd. He tries to bob his head along with the music. Maybe raise his hands to look like he’s having fun.

But fuck it, this isn’t working. 

_‘I must look like a fool right now,’_ the blond thinks to himself. _‘Narancia’s probably back at the table laughing his ass off at how dumb I look.’_

He opens his eyes, and immediately looks at the table. However, instead of finding Narancia, he spots a flustered looking man in a beanie leave the table and head for the door. 

“Hey hey Mista!” one of the members at the table calls back at the man in the beanie, the rest of the words trailing off. 

~~~

“Hey, where’s Narancia and the new guy?” Abbacchio asks as he, Bruno, and Mista return to the table. They each take their seats. “I wanna make him drink my special drink to join the gang,” he chuckles, earning disgusted looks from the other three men at the table.

“Fuck man, that’s nasty,” Mista slouches into one of the seats.

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” Fugo scoffs as he gestures towards the blond who, by now, appeared awfully disinterested in whatever is happening on the dance floor. “Narancia got to him first with his love potion.”

“Wait, Narancia made him drink that?!” Mista’s eyes widen as he suddenly sits up.

“Oh? What are you acting up for?” Bruno eyes Mista curiously. “Don’t tell me, you have a—”

“What?! No!” Mista dismisses the man. “I just wanted to, uhh, you know, uhm…” he counts the heads curiously staring back at him. “There’s four of us at this table! I hate that number! It’s bad luck! You all know how much I hate it!!”

Fugo hunches his shoulders over. “Oh really?” he grins slyly. “You’ve never overreacted like this to the number four before.”

“Wow, let’s all gang up on Mista cause it’s convenient,” a flustered Mista desperately tries to joke around to defuse the situation.

But all the eyes on the table seem to be fixed on him. And the teasing grins accompanying those eyes are definitely showing no signs of being diverted from their initial topic.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “Whatever, I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” he says as he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket and heads for the door. 

“Hey hey Mista! You’re going the wrong way! Dancefloor and new guy are over there! There’s your fresh air!” Abbacchio teases aloud, but even before the last few words reach the man, he is already out.

The still night air greets Mista as he opens the door leading to the front of the building. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag to calm himself down. As he blows out the smoke, he watches the fumes slowly dance along with the muffled music before slowly drifting apart and dissipating. He rubs his temples.

_‘Fuck those guys, man. You’re here to have a good time. You can’t let ‘em get to you.’_

Mista takes another drag on his cigarette. 

_‘That new guy tho_ — _’_

He literally slaps himself before he could give it any more thought.

“Shut the fuck up man, pull yourself together!” he cusses at himself before taking an even longer drag.

“Uhm….. What are you doing?” a voice greets him from behind. 

Mista swivels around to find a boy with braided blond hair staring at him curiously. He was startled enough that he forgets to exhale the rest of the smoke in his system, causing him to cough uncontrollably.

“Hey, are you okay?” the new guy asks him. “What happened? Do you need me to get you some water?”

“I’m fine,” Mista manages to reply in-between coughs. “Wh-what are you doing here?” It was awfully bewildering to have the blond suddenly so close to him. Didn’t Fugo say that blondie was shaking it with Narancia at the dance floor? But that’s not all there is to it. What’s even more surprising was how attentive and concerned this new guy seemed when he was coughing his lungs out.

“I, uh,” the blond chuckles. “I don’t really dance,” he says upfront. Yet his subtle swaying earns a raised brow from Mista.

“Really?” Mista responds. “But you were out with Narancia shaking things after that love potion?” he grins.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Giorno places a hand on his head to rub his temples. “But damn, that was one strong drink,” he whispers under his breath. 

“So… out of curiosity, what made you do Narancia’s love potion thing? Don’t you know that shit’s a scam?”

“Of course I know,” the blond swiftly responds, immediately steadying himself as he says the words.

“Ah I see,” was all Mista could say. He looks down on the ground and takes a drag. 

The new guy watches him blow out the puff of smoke. “… Mista, was it?”

“Yeah. Guido Mista,” he answers. He looks at the younger man and realizes something. “Oh shit, you don’t smoke, do you?” he says as he casually lets the cigarette drop on the floor, stepping on it before the blond could say a word. 

“No I don’t,” comes an equally casual answer. 

“Oh, my bad, uh… Giorno, yeah?” Mista turns to the blond. The other simply nods. The man in the beanie avoids his gaze and looks down on the ground again. It takes a while before he is able to utter another word, making sure he treads cautiously. He wouldn’t want to worsen whatever awful impression the guy already has on him. “So uhh… Out of curiosity…”

“Again?” Giorno stifles his laughter.

“Y-yeah…” Mista clears his throat as if he had downed a shot of the world’s strongest gin. “Out of curiosity,” he tries his best to remain calm, but the thumping of his heart isn’t making it easy. God, why is he even going to ask this. “Who was the first person you saw?”

“I actually saw you heading out the door,” Giorno confesses as he smiles widely, his eyes form little crescents and, god, Mista is sure that the blond’s flushed face makes him even more adorable. 

“Really? Wait—REALLY???” Mista stammers.

“I thought you said it was a scam?” Giorno lightly giggles.

Mista strains to contain himself and regain his composure. “Yeah. Scam,” was all he could say. He tries his best to sound casual but his body language is a dead giveaway that he felt a tiny bit dejected.

Having noticed this, the blond couldn’t help but bite his lower lip to stop himself from grinning. There is something so amusing about the other man’s reaction that it makes him want to press on it even further. 

“Heeeey,” he starts. “What’s with the long face? Someone seems a little bit disappointed,” he teases, playfully placing his arm around the other.

 _‘FUCK MAN, KEEP IT TOGETHER,’_ Mista’s mind screams as he feels the new guy’s arm snake around him. 

“Scam? Who—Wha—Where—When—How?” Mista struggles to worm his way out of the situation, but all reason seems to have disappeared in a snap as the blond turns to face him eye to eye. 

Of course, things would have been _significantly_ easier for him if that pretty pink face of this new guy isn’t inches away from his own.

“Don’t tell me Mr. Guweedo Mista believes in scams?” Giorno laughs a little too enthusiastically, he tilts his head back. He then brings himself even closer to Mista. “Why, does this feel fake to you?” he giggles.

Mista could smell that sickly sweet scent of the love potion. And honestly, fuck that love potion. It’s not supposed to be that sweet. And it sure as hell isn’t supposed to be _real._ But here he is, three sticks of cigarettes down, no alcohol in his system, and a pretty-as-fuck new flatmate who has his arm wrapped around him. Literally and figuratively. He just wants to implode. He tells himself to act naturally. _‘Just chill, Mista, chiiiiill,’_ he thinks to himself. But how the absolute hell is he going to when this charming drunk new guy is making the stupid love potion _feel so damn real?_

“I—I don’t believe in scams!” he finally retorts.

Giorno pouts. “Of course you don’t,” he sighs as he untangles himself from the man. He turns his back and starts to slowly walk away, before hearing something from behind him.

“I kinda want to though...”

This makes the blond snap around to face Mista, eyeing him curiously. “What?”

“Uhhhh, you heard that?” the man in the beanie chuckles nervously. “It was nothing.”

“No. I’m sure I heard something,” Giorno presses further accusingly as he starts walking back to Mista, staggering as he inches closer. “You said something.”

Mista forces a stiff laugh. “You must be drunk out of your mind, you’re starting to hear things.”

“I mean, if it’s your voice I’m hearing, then I wouldn’t mind at all,” he smirks.

“Well uhhh, I....” Mista scratches his cheek lightly. “Hey do you wanna go back inside? We should probably get you some water if your head’s still spinning.”

Giorno tilts his head to the side. A few moments later, he shifts his head so it tilts to the other side. Soon enough, he starts to involuntarily sway to the beat from the music that can barely be heard thumping from inside the bar.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re still a bit buzzed,” Mista responds. He takes the blond’s arm and places it over his shoulder to help him steady himself. “Come on, we’re getting you some water.”

The two enter the bar again and are greeted by the blaring music from the speakers. They slowly make their way to the table where Mista gently places the blond.

“Fugo, could you watch him for me? I’m gonna go get him some water. I think the love potion was too much for him to handle,” Mista says to the other blond.

Fugo raises a curious brow at him. “My, my… aren’t you a little too accommodating to our new friend here,” he says with a grin. “You weren’t this hospitable the first time I got drunk with you guys.” 

The two older members are busy snickering and whispering to each other at the side.

No way. Not this again. Mista quickly shoots Fugo a look: eyes wide and threatening in an awfully comical way, it’s enough to make the less inebriated blond stifle a laugh. He flashes each of them an annoyed look before turning to head to the bar.

“Hey Lessi, could you get me a tall glass of water?” he says to the bartender. “I think you put too much alcohol on the love potion this time around,” he adds.

“Yeah, I know,” the bartender answers. “But I’m surprised you’re actually taking care of that pretty boy,” he chuckles. “Don’t tell me, you like him?” he slides Mista a glass of water. “I noticed you two since you went out for a smoke.”

“Oh come on!” Mista exasperatedly sighs, “Not you too!?” He pulls his beanie down out of frustration. The bartender simply chuckles and nudges the glass to him. He takes the water and starts heading back to the table. Along the way, he sees Narancia still busting out on the dance floor. 

_‘At least someone’s having fun,’_ he thinks to himself and rolls his eyes. He notices Narancia still has his eyes closed while dancing. After all this time, the guy still really takes the love potion seriously. Then again, maybe that kind of thinking is one of the reasons why Narancia gets to have all the fun in the world. _‘Lucky for him.’_

As soon as he gets back, he sits beside Giorno and offers him the glass. 

“Hey, drink up. We don’t want you dehydrated when you wake up in the morning.”

“But I’m not that drunk,” the blond whines. 

“I know you’re not,” Mista gently responds. “But I bet your head’s still spinning from that drink,” he smiles. “Trust me, you’ll feel better once you’ve had some water in your system.”

The blond hesitates, but takes the drink from him and gulps down a few mouthfuls of water. And truly enough, the cool water rushes into his system. His head starts to feel less fuzzy and he’s able to somewhat straighten himself up on his chair. He sighs.

“There we go,” Mista encourages him to drink some more.

Giorno proceeds to finish the entire glass of water. “Thanks,” he shyly says.

All Mista was able to do was smile back sheepishly at the blond.

“Well, well, well… Look what we have here,” Abbacchio’s booming voice erupts from behind.

“Yeah, looks like you two are getting along well,” Bucciarati chimes in with a smug. “Maybe a little too well...”

“DON’T GET ANY FUNNY IDEAS,” Mista shouts at the two. 

“Yeah,” Giorno follows suit. “Just don’t,” he adds before leaning his head back against his chair, both hands still holding onto the emptied glass. 

“Oooookayy then,” Abbacchio winks at Mista. He and Bucciarati circle the table for vacant seats, eyes focused on Mista who is caught taking the glass from Giorno’s hands to place it on the table. They finally take their seats near Fugo who is busy with his phone in one hand and a nearly finished drink in the other. 

When Abbacchio and Bucciarati have settled, Mista shoots them a somewhat annoyed look.

“Don’t worry, we’re just messing with you,” Bruno chuckles. “Anyways, it’s getting late. We should probably start getting ready to head home.”

“Finally,” Fugo sighs as he puts his phone down. “I can finally watch Running Bros. A new episode just came out—wait. Where’s Narancia?”

At that moment, a defeated looking Narancia slumps himself down on his chair. 

“Well, it looks like Narancia’s batteries ran out. We’re really going home,” Fugo comments and stretches his arms upward. “Hey man, why do you look so… dejected?”

“Trish Una,” Narancia’s whisper is barely audible as he stares straight ahead.

“What now?” Fugo asks.

“The love potion… I saw... first… Trish,” Narancia repeats, voice almost shaking in sheer terror and disbelief.

Fugo explodes in laughter. “Oh come on! You’ve been drinking here for how many years now! You should know out of all people that this love potion thing is just a gimmick!”

The blond in green points at Mista. “Look, the new guy even saw Mista first after he danced!”

The guy’s face lights up. “Oh really?! I’m happy for you guys! Meanwhile, wish me luck. I’m prolly gonna die of annoyance with Trish.”

Fugo grabs Narancia. “That’s not the point man!!! What I’m trying to say is that these things won’t happen just because you downed a drink at this bar!”

“What?” Narancia gives him a dumbfounded look.

“Do you seriously think the new guy and Mista are gonna end up together?” Fugo’s questioning eyes are boring deep into his.

Narancia eyes the two people sitting next to him. “Well… They seem to have good chemistry—”

“DAMMIT NARANCIA,” Mista and Giorno shout back, but immediately turn to face each other. Did they just…? 

The rest of the table falls silent; all eyes glued onto the pair who strongly denied all allegations by ironically saying the same thing at the same damn time. Bruno raises his brow.

Abbacchio attempts to hide his snicker, but it soon escalates into a chuckle. Bucciarati couldn’t keep his poker face and shortly follows Abbacchio. In a moment, the whole table was filled with uproarious laughter. 

Except for Giorno and Mista. While the latter seems to be fed up with all the teasing at this point, the new guy appears to be a little too busy staring at him.

Of course, Mista catches it from the corner of his eye. “W-what?!” he asks a little too loudly to someone a little too close to him.

The braided blond notices a hint of embarrassment coming from the man next to him.

“Wait, are you seriously... blushing?” Giorno asks.

“Holy shit, Mista’s turning red!” Bruno exclaims as he points at Mista’s cheeks.

At this point, Giorno couldn’t take it anymore. He finally bursts out laughing along with the gang at Mista’s expense. He feels a comforting warmth rise in his chest. Whether it’s from the alcohol or the moment he’s sharing with his new companions, he didn’t bother dwelling on it. He soon convinces himself how good his laughter mingled with the gang’s—happy and genuine. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had laughed this heartily with anyone, but it didn’t matter anymore. All he knows is that he has found himself a group that he can surely call his friends. Suddenly, the thought of living in a dorm doesn’t seem like a challenge to overcome with these people surrounding him. Things are falling into place and they will surely continue to get better from here on out… And who knows, maybe he’ll also get to experience the thrill and wonder of falling in love. 

“So how was your first day? I think you’ll be a great fit!” a voice cuts through the laughter. “Isn’t that right, Giorno?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Giorno? Giorno, you there? Heeey!” the voice pulls the blond back to reality. 

Giorno blinks his eyes repeatedly and finds himself back in the present day at the gang’s favorite diner; a small old-time restaurant with a charming 80s aesthetic where they usually go after spending the night drinking at the bar. In front of him is a small cup of espresso, still steaming, and waiting to be consumed. 

“Hey! Earth to Giorno Giovanna?” Mista waves his hand in front of the blond’s face. “You okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he replies. 

He glances around and finds the rest of the gang in the restaurant. Bruno and Abbacchio are eating pasta, Narancia and Trish are bickering over their ice cream, and Fugo is fiddling with his phone, taking sips from his cup from time to time.

“Really now?” Mista asks with a raised brow. “Seems like you were thinking about something else.”

“No I wasn’t,” the blond denies. He meets Mista in the eye; dark and always warm. Much like how he liked his coffee. 

Still, the man in the beanie remains unconvinced. “Okay then,” he says. “What was the last thing I said?” 

“Signora Ricci, duh,” Giorno answers immediately, throwing in as much fake confidence as he can in those three words, hoping that he gets it right. But the man beside him doesn’t react. Crap, maybe he got it wrong.

“You know what?” he finally speaks. “Yeah, it _was_ about Signora Ricci,” he plays along. He can get an answer from Giorno the next day. The truth about Giorno’s relation to Signore “Blowjob” Polpo can wait. If he’s willing to wait things out to rekindle what he and Giorno once had, then he can surely wait just a bit longer for this big reveal—it can be another one of their shared little secrets. He sees Giorno frown by the slightest bit; probably disappointed with how he simply brushed it off. He huffs out a quiet laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” the blond asks.

“Nothing, nothing,” Mista yawns and stretches. He suddenly had a thought about wrapping his outstretched arms around Giorno. But he decided it wasn’t really the right time and immediately retracts them.

“Listen,” Mista starts. “I’m glad we worked things out.”

“It didn’t _exactly_ work out,” the blond whispers, hinting at a topic they once had.

“I mean yeah, but…” he trails off as he nudges the small cup of coffee to the man beside him. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Giorno smiles at this as he stares at the cup. He hasn’t taken a single sip of his coffee, but the warmth he felt upon hearing those words seemed more than enough to really ground him back to reality.

“You should really drink that now before Bucciarati sobers up completely,” Mista presses on as he takes a sip from his own cup.

“Yeah yeah,” comes the response as the blond finally drinks. And once the soothing hot beverage hits his system, he sighs with a smile. That surely hit the spot.

“There we go,” Mista lightly chuckles. He places an elbow on the table and rests his cheek on his hand to stare at the man beside him. 

“What now?” Giorno asks before taking another measured sip from his coffee.

A small curl makes its way to Mista’s lips. He contemplates on telling just how happy he is to have that huge weight lifted off his chest, to have their group back to spending Friday nights together, to be able to speak comfortably with Giorno… He could go on and on until the crack of dawn, but right now, his eyes are transfixed on those radiant green eyes that he will always long for and adore.

Things will eventually fall into place when they finally find what they’re looking for.

“Alright, you guys good?” Bruno asks everyone. “It’s almost 3 am and we best be heading back home now.”

The others nod and answer back, automatically standing from their seats and off to the doors.

And without even looking at Bucciarati’s general direction, the two say in unison, “Yeah we’re good.”

_FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we've finally reached the finish line 💓 I'm so happy to have this delivered on Valentine's Day because the chapter just had a lot to do with different kinds of love. Writing this entire series is just one of the best things that ever happened to me and getting my friend to join in just makes it even more amazing. 
> 
> EDIT: Lessi is an OC of mine whom my friend inserted in this chapter just because he wanted to 😆
> 
> So how did you find the entire series? Were you satisfied with the ending? Was there anything you would've wanted to see? Let us know by leaving a comment or reaching out to me on [Twitter (@yo_nanji)](http://twitter.com/yo_nanji) ! Who knows, we might throw in another supplemental chapter 😆 Thank you so much for taking the time to read through this entire series. We really hope that you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed writing, editing, and revising each part.
> 
> Til the next 💐,  
> Nanji


End file.
